


Subtext

by Notesfromaclassroom



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-15 12:51:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 55,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1305505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notesfromaclassroom/pseuds/Notesfromaclassroom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Communication ought to come easy to a talented linguist and a logical Vulcan, right?  Think again.  A series of written messages between Spock and Uhura, starting at their Academy days and going through "Darkness."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Overthinking

**Chapter One: Overthinking**

**Disclaimer: No money made here. All for love.**

"You're definitely overthinking this," Gaila says. "It's just an email from your professor, not the end of the universe."

She lies sprawled across her unmade bed, a fingernail file in one hand, her other hand raised in what Nyota knows is the Orion signal of bemusement. On the opposite bed, Nyota sits cross-legged, her largest PADD in her lap. At the moment her hands are also raised—palms up, fingers spread in the universal human symbol of "you've gotta be kidding me."

"I'm not overthinking anything," she says, her eyes on the screen of her PADD. With a sudden motion she stabs one finger at the offending email from her xenolinguistics professor, Commander Spock, the source of her sour mood. "Where Commander Spock is concerned, you _have_ to be precise."

Gaila lifts one eyebrow in an uncanny imitation of the Vulcan commander. "You mean _you_ have to be precise. The heavens forbid that you get a bad grade for once. Give it a rest, Ny. Join the ranks of us mere mortals who don't always get top marks. You don't have to be the best student in every class you take."

Gaila's words are teasing but her halfway-serious tone catches Nyota by surprise.

"That's what you think of me?" she says, lowering her hands and sitting back against the headboard. "That all I'm worried about is outscoring everyone?"

"I don't _think_ it. I _know_ it," Gaila says, ducking as Nyota tosses a pillow at her head.

"You're wrong!" Despite herself, Nyota laughs. More than anyone she knows, Gaila has a way of knocking the wind out of her sails, of making her take herself less seriously and with more humor and grace than is easy or natural. No matter how annoying her roommate can be—her inconvenient love life, her habitual messiness—Nyota values her ability to keep her grounded.

Except that this time she's wrong. Commander Spock is being unfair.

Not that there isn't a kernel of truth to what Gaila says. The semester has barely started and already Nyota is struggling to stay ahead of the reading assignments in Commander Spock's seminar. When other students warned her away from his section before she signed up, she had scoffed. "If he's the hardest professor in the department, then he's absolutely the one I need to take," she said. Now three weeks into the course, that sounds suspiciously like hubris.

Not that the Commander isn't an interesting lecturer, or that his class discussions aren't incisive and illuminating. If anything, Nyota thinks he's one of the best instructors she's had yet at the Academy, and she's had plenty of terrific teachers in her two years here. In the seminar he's especially intense, probably because it is small—15 students—and all are communications majors. More often than not when the dismissal bell chimes, Nyota is so entangled in discussing some finer point with the Commander that when she looks up she's surprised that they are the only two left in the room.

"Okay," Nyota said, "let's say that I'm competitive." She hears a little puff of air as Gaila parts her lips to speak. Hurrying to head her off, Nyota adds, " _Overly_ competitive. Even so, you have to admit that this note would upset anyone."

Gaila tucks Nyota's errant pillow under her head and starts to file one nail. "Read it to me again."

Picking up her PADD, Nyota reads, " _To Cadet Nyota Uhura, Member, Class 2254 (est.)_ Look! See that." She holds up the PADD toward Gaila.

"See what?" Gaila says. "He got everything right."

"Technically," Nyota concedes. "But he didn't have to put that little "estimated" in there. There's nothing in my record to indicate I won't graduate on time."

Gaila rolls her eyes. "Back to my original comment, Ny. You're overthinking this. Commander Spock is a Vulcan, right? They love technicalities. It's who they are. That has nothing to do with you."

Nyota harrumphs loudly. "That's not all," she says, lifting the PADD to eye level. " _Be advised that the most recent draft of your paper on Tartainian fricatives includes a reference to research that no longer meets the required standard of academic review. Please schedule an appointment to discuss necessary revisions_."

"So?" Gaila says. "He's giving you a chance to fix your paper before he grades it. Sounds like you're the teacher's pet alright."

"That's not what he's saying at all! He's questioning my citations, saying there's something wrong with one of them. But I _know_ they're okay. I triple checked everything. I even ran them by Professor Salendar first. He grew up on a Tartainian colony world. If anyone would know if I got my facts straight, he would."

"Commander Spock didn't question your facts," Gaila says. "He questioned your _citation_ of a fact. Since you're being precise, maybe you need to think about what he's actually saying."

Nyota snorts and puts her PADD back on her lap. As much as she hates to admit it, Gaila has a point. Still, she's certain that her documentation is correct. With a sigh, she calls up Commander Spock's office schedule. Most of the available hours are during her other classes, but he has an opening this afternoon. She hesitates for a moment, her finger hovering over her PADD. Later would be better—she'll have time to cool down if she waits. On the other hand, he's wrong, and the sooner he realizes it, the sooner she can get back to finishing up the final draft of her paper.

She taps on the time slot and types out a short reply.

"There," she says with a flourish. "That takes care of that." She feels her mood already starting to lift. She'll meet with Commander Spock in a few hours and set him right. Glancing at the time on her PADD, she plans what she needs to do in the meantime. A short run, maybe down to the marina and back. A quick shower and a light lunch. Start on next week's assignment for her advanced physics class. Answer some emails to friends back home.

And yes, look over the citations in her paper about Tartainian fricatives. Just to make sure she hasn't missed anything. Which, of course, she knows she hasn't.

Narrowing her eyes, she conjures up an image of Commander Spock sitting stiffly behind his desk, his instructor grays impeccable as always, not a hair out of place. "See this," she will say, her finger resting on the citation page of her paper. "Every reference is perfect."

What will the unflappable commander do? Flush in embarrassment? Stutter an apology? Do Vulcans ever admit when they are wrong? It will be interesting to see.

"Why are you smiling?" Gaila asks. "What are you thinking about?"

"Oh, nothing," Nyota says smugly. "I'm not thinking about anything at all."

X X

Long before the knock at his door, Spock knows that Professor Artura is making his way down the hallway toward the office. Like the majority of Andorians, he is thin and deliberate in his motions, his blue skin and white hair an aesthetically interesting contrast. Since dividing his time between the computer science and the language departments, Spock has come to know the elderly professor fairly well—or at least well enough to be able to anticipate his moods based on the actions of his never-still antennae.

Right now Professor Artura's antenna are almost flat, looking like two blue stubby fingers pointing directly at Spock. Curiosity, then. The Professor has come on what Spock's mother likes to call a "fishing expedition."

"Commander," he says with a little bob at the waist. "May I come in?"

Stifling a sigh, Spock moves away from the door and Professor Artura follows him to an empty chair beside his desk. "Please," Spock says, motioning to the chair as he settles into his own. Touching the computer screen, he closes the note he had been composing to Cadet Uhura.

If he's feeling more flustered than usual, that's to be expected. Twelve minutes ago he received a baffling note from the cadet, and he's been considering how to reply ever since.

" _Be advised_ ," her note said, " _that your most recent communication to me concerning my paper on Tartainian fricatives is in error in concluding that one of my citations includes a reference to research that no longer meets the required standard of academic review. I have scheduled an appointment to discuss necessary revisions to your assessment_. _Cadet Nyota Uhura, Class of 2254 (est.)"_

Her note is almost a copy of the one he sent to her earlier, but by adding a few words, she's turned the meaning around and changed the tone entirely. While his original note was straightforward and clear cut, Spock is puzzled by the way her reply feels…impolite? Mocking? Angry, perhaps, though he can't sort out why she might be. He is, after all, offering her a chance to update her paper with information not readily available to her. Last night he had been checking the preliminary newsfeed from the J'alia Tou Outer Rim Languages Conference when a presentation about Tartainian fricatives caught his eye. The preeminent authority in the field—the one Cadet Uhura quotes in her paper—admitted that his early work had not been with Tartainian natives but with inhabitants of one of their colony worlds, casting his research conclusions in doubt. While the language spoken on the colony world might be similar to the native speakers, it is more likely that the vowels have drifted or the fricatives have diverged. No one knows yet, but the cadet needs to indicate the possibility in her paper.

When she comes for a conference, he'll check his interpretation of the tone of her note against her vocal and facial expressions. It is quite possible that he is, as his mother sometimes accuses him, _overthinking_ things. After all, the cadet is a gifted student who welcomes criticism and is eager to learn.

On reflection, perhaps that is precisely the reason she sounds annoyed in her note. Rather than explaining the reason for questioning her citation, he requested a conference instead. An exceptional student such as Cadet Uhura would be eager to begin the corrections to the paper and might find an office consultation a waste of her time. She might, he realizes, have felt insulted, or at the very least, misjudged. The idea makes him flush.

He see now that he should have sent her a link to the conference papers without asking her to make an office appointment to discuss them in person. Far off in one corner of his mind he examines and quickly puts aside one possible explanation for his actions—that he enjoys her company and wants to continue their contact outside of the classroom. A possibility, and one that makes him flush again. If that _is_ the case, now that he's brought it to his consciousness, it won't happen again.

All this he thinks in the blink of eye as Professor Artura leans forward in his chair. Again Spock stifles a sigh. The professor is often an unwelcome interruption to the day, indulging in casual conversation –or at least attempting to—and stopping by Spock's office frequently to proffer tea.

"I came to ask your advice," he says in the sibilant lisp characteristic of Andorians. "You know that the dean has approved the funding for teaching assistants next year. I'm looking for someone with a particular interest in the Beta Quadrant languages. The only students I know who are truly fluent in Klingon are graduating this year. I was hoping that you might have a suggestion of someone in your seminar who might be interested. Just for teaching, I think. I'm not doing any research at the moment."

Cadet Uhura is fluent—or nearly so—in Klingon. As far as Spock knows, she is the only one in his seminar who is. Indeed, he doesn't know another student with similar proficiency.

Until now he had not given much thought to the dean's notice about future teaching assistants. He hesitates a fraction of a second before answering.

"I am sorry," he says, lacing his fingers together and resting his hands on the desktop. "I can think of no candidates who would be suitable for you."

Professor Artura's antennae droop closer to his head, an indicator of his disappointment.

"Oh!" he says, surprised. "I was so hopeful you would know someone!"

With that he stands slowly. Spock rises and tucks his hands behind his back, watching Professor Artura make his way out the door. As the sound of his shuffling footsteps echoes down the hall, Spock sits and tabs open his computer screen.

Cadet Uhura's note springs open. Reading it once more, this time Spock is convinced she is annoyed.

With a tap of his finger he sends her the link to the conference papers. For a moment he considers following up with a note explaining why—but she will understand that he's recognizing—belatedly—that she can read and understand them for herself.

With another tap he calls up his office calendar and scans the appointment time she requested. He lets his finger hang in the air for a moment, and then with a decisive push, presses delete.

**A/N: Hello, everyone! I've been away for awhile writing original short stories and playing in the "Elementary" fandom, but Star Trek always has been and always shall be my best friend.**

**I hope you enjoy where this new story takes us. Although I've never been much of a fan of epistolary novels—you know, those books that are set up as a series of letters between characters—I do think it will be fun to explore what happens when Spock and Uhura write all kinds of things to each other, starting in their Academy days and going all the way through "Darkness." If that interests you as well, let me know!**


	2. Recommendation

**Chapter Two: Recommendation**

**Disclaimer: No money made. Lots of love, though.**

Spock pauses inside the double doors of the main student cafeteria of Starfleet Academy. By human reckoning the hour is early—0715—but already both breakfast lines are full and over a hundred students are seated at the long tables. Scanning the room, Spock revises his estimation. 117 students are seated, some hunched over bowls of hot grain cereal and fruit or nursing a cup of coffee silently, but even more of them interrupting their food intake to converse with each other.

The noise level is jarring, or would be if Spock allowed it. He won't be here more than a minute or two—just long enough to find Cadet Uhura and give her the recommendation she requested for her summer internship with Professor Ellison on the lunar relay station.

He could have sent the recommendation electronically, of course. However, his last experience with sending an email to Cadet Uhura had been less than satisfactory. The resulting misunderstanding over her paper on Tartainian fricatives caught him completely off-guard, as did her palpable anger at the next class meeting. Only now—at the end of the semester—does she seem comfortable again in his presence. Indeed, on the last day of class, she had lingered behind after the other students departed and told him of her plans to apply for Professor Ellison's summer internship. Would he, she wondered, be willing to write her a recommendation?

"I assumed you would find a summer position here in San Francisco," he said, trying to hide his surprise—and his dismay. "There are many suitable internships available for a student of your caliber."

She had smiled then, not the kind of sly or timid smile he sometimes saw when students were given praise, but a large grin that didn't try to hide her pleasure in his assessment of her abilities.

"I appreciate that, but I think I need a break," she said, "and I've always wanted to visit the moon."

They walked out of the empty classroom together, parting at the top of the stairs. He should have written the recommendation right then and sent it directly to Professor Ellison, but Spock was understandably skittish about writing something that Cadet Uhura might misconstrue. The logical plan—and the safest one—was to let her read it first before he submitted it. In fact, he could encode a signature chip in a flimplast and she could turn it in to Professor Ellison herself.

Yet when he sat down to compose the recommendation he faltered, struggling to find a balance between being scrupulously honest and overly enthusiastic. In every way she was the perfect candidate for the internship—hard-working, dedicated, talented. If he'd thought ahead, he could have offered her a summer internship helping him with the annual revision of the Kobayashi Maru test, something that might have appealed to her.

He rested his wrists on the edge of his desk and curled his fingers above the keyboard of his computer.

" _Cadet Uhura is both intelligent and beautiful."_

With a start, he glanced down at his computer screen. He would never write such words—a human judgment, the kind of thing his mother might say. He stared at the blinking cursor waiting for…something. After another fruitless minute, he stopped trying and spent the rest of the evening meditating cross-legged in front of his _asenoi_.

He'd tried several more times since then to write the recommendation, each version less satisfactory than the one before it. A conundrum—and a refutation of the Earth saying that _practice makes perfect_.

Then last night Cadet Uhura sent him a note—a terse email that both shamed him and spurred him to finish her request.

_Commander Spock, Three days ago you agreed to write a recommendation for my summer internship application. If you are either unwilling or unable to do so, please let me know and I will ask someone else. The deadline is fast approaching. Cadet N. Uhura, Class of 2254 (est.)_

Unwilling or unable. He was neither, he thought quickly, and then, just as quickly, he realized that he was both—and why. How astonishing—the unlooked for discovery that the idea of her absence during the summer was so disagreeable.

In a flurry of activity he had put words together and resolved to seek her out the next morning.

Except that now she doesn't seem to be in the cafeteria. Looking around once more, Spock is certain she is not here, though he spots her roommate, Cadet Farlijah-Endef, one of only a handful of Orions at Starfleet, a reason Spock has been a vocal advocate for a more robust recruitment program to non-Terrans.

Hesitating a fraction of a second, he makes his way across the cafeteria towards her table.

"Commander!" she says, clearly startled when he stops in front of her. "Can I help you?"

"I was looking for Cadet Uhura," he says, placing the flimplast on the table. "This contains the recommendation she asked me to write. I believe she needs it as soon as possible, and since she is not here at the moment—"

"You want me to give it to her?"

"If it does not inconvenience you."

Cadet Farlijah-Endef shakes her head, her red curls bouncing. "Of course not! I'm heading back to the room in a few minutes. She's probably still there."

He's about to respond when over the cadet's shoulder he sees Cadet Uhura herself walking in the door at the far end of the cafeteria. Opening his mouth to tell Cadet Farlijah-Endef that he won't need her as his messenger after all, Spock sees a male cadet walking beside her, gesticulating wildly with upraised hands. Although they are too far away to hear what they are saying, Spock can see that the male is talking, a smile on his face. Cadet Uhura's expression is harder to read, her head bent low, her gaze on the floor ahead of her.

Suddenly Spock is aware that Cadet Farlijah-Endef is looking at him curiously and he turns his attention back to her.

"Thank you," he says, and then he adds, "Professor Ott has mentioned your work in the simulation programming lab. It has been exemplary."

The cadet flushes a darker green at the compliment and Spock says, "If you are interested in a summer programming internship, I have a position available. The details will be posted on the campus newsfeed later today. See me if you wish to apply."

As he walks away he sees her bob her head, her teeth flashing in a wide grin, her torso twisting in what he assumes is an Orion show of approval.

Already Spock has an unsettling sensation of weariness and unease. Offering the position to Cadet Farlijah-Endef may have been a mistake. Hurrying out into the early morning sunlight, he decides it is too late to change anything now.

X X

"This is for you," Gaila says as Nyota sets a tray on the table and slides into a chair next to her at breakfast. "Hand delivered by your favorite professor."

"You have a favorite professor?" Jim Kirk quips as he slides into a chair on the other side of Gaila. Nyota narrows her eyes at him and then pointedly looks away, taking the flimplast from Gaila. Not that she dislikes Kirk—he can be funny and charming and underneath his puppy dog energy he sometimes slips up and shows a glimmer of real intelligence—but she does distrust him. He is overconfident to a fault, and an inveterate flirt, and if Gaila weren't a bigger one, Nyota would worry that her roommate is heading for a broken heart—or whatever is the equivalent metaphor for Orion love affairs gone sour.

Taking a sip of her coffee, Nyota angles the flimplast and begins to read.

" _Cadet Uhura was a member of my spring semester biolinguistics seminar. She successfully completed the course work and can, if she chooses, register for the advanced section in the fall. Her research project was adequate and has been accepted for publication in the Journal of Xenolinguistics. Her ability to distinguish phonemic subtleties is not hampered noticeably by the limits of human auditory perception. Her contributions to the class were many."_

That's it? Five sentences? Five sentences that say almost nothing—or rather, seem to symbolize, with their own boring mediocrity, something about her character. She sets her cup down so hard that coffee sloshes over the rim. Both Gaila and Kirk turn to look at her.

"What is it? You look upset," Gaila says.

Pushing back her chair, Nyota stands up abruptly and says, "I have to go." Without looking back she starts through the crowded cafeteria, Jim Kirk calling behind her, "Hey! Don't you want your breakfast?"

As she storms across the commons to the astrophysics building where Professor Ellison has an office, she rehearses what she'll say—that she knows it is unusual to ask, but can he see his way clear to grant her an extension on her application deadline? The hold up is the recommendation—yes, she's gotten one, but she'd obviously failed to explain to Commander Spock what such a request entailed—because what he returned to her was unsuitable. Useless, really. An extension would give her time to ask someone else.

When she's shown into the office, she says none of this, however, deciding that it would sound like an excuse rather than a corrective to Commander Spock's anemic assessment of her. Sitting primly in the chair opposite Professor Ellison's desk, her hands folded on her lap, one knee crossed over the other, she controls her breathing with effort, trying not to let her anger show.

If only Commander Spock had written his recommendation earlier, she could have done an end-run around him with time to spare. The thought makes her face hot with anger—and if she is honest, with shame. All this time she thought he saw her work as exemplary, saw _her_ as an excellent student, certainly more than merely _adequate_. She feels damned with praise of the faintest kind.

Too late to change anything now.

She watches as Professor Ellison reads over her application—and the flimplast with Commander Spock's recommendation.

For a few minutes the only sound in the small office is the steady thrum of the air exchanger overhead. Then Professor Ellison clears his throat and sets most of the application papers on his desk, keeping the flimplast in his hand. Nyota shifts uneasily in her chair.

Looking up, Professor Ellison says, "Let's talk about this."

_Here it comes_ , she thinks. _Here's where I don't get the internship._

"This is really…something," he says, and she blinks and nods and says, "Yes, I know."

Professor Ellison leans back in his chair. "I don't think I've ever seen a recommendation quite like this. Is this the first time you've taken a course with Commander Spock?"

"Yes," Nyota says, biting her bottom lip. "And I guess it will be my last."

Professor Ellison gives her an odd look and says, "It needn't be. He's approved you for the advanced seminar."

At that Nyota gives a little huff of air. " _Approved_ isn't exactly the word. He said I could take it if I wanted to. I suppose that's something."

Again Professor Ellison looks at her oddly. "Well, yes. Yes, it is. When I checked the posted course results, you were the only one he _did_ approve for the advanced seminar."

Nyota's lips are already parted to say something, anything, to try to rescue her chances for the internship when the meaning of Professor Ellison's words come through. She blinks in surprise and closes her mouth like a goldfish. "I'm sorry, did you say I was the only one he approved?"

Tapping the flimplast with his finger, Professor Ellison says, "I can't remember the last time Commander Spock gave such high praise. And you're lucky he sponsored your project for publication. Coming from him, that means a great deal. He doesn't sponsor student work very often."

"He said it was _adequate_!" Nyota blurts out. A hint of amusement ripples across Professor Ellison's expression.

"Well, it was, wasn't it? I mean, what does adequate mean? Fulfilling its function, right? Any less and it would have been inadequate. Any more would have been superfluous."

He laughs then, and Nyota feels her shoulders loosen, as if she's just run a long distance.

"Then—then, this is okay?" she asks, and Professor Ellison laughs again.

"Better than okay," he says. "You did a good job in his class and he wants you to sign up for the advanced section. You published your research. Your hearing and analytical skills are as good as any human's can be. Like I said, high praise coming from Commander Spock. The only thing I don't quite understand is this last sentence."

He holds up the flimplast and reads, " _Her contributions to the class were many_. That's unusually vague for a Vulcan. Any idea what he might have meant by that?"

Although she is sitting motionless on the chair, both of her feet firmly on the ground, Nyota has a moment of such intense dizziness that for a moment she feels her world shift. A wave of understanding crashes over her—and with it, she imagines herself through the Commander's eyes—how she is almost always the first one to arrive and the last one to leave class; how her words tumble over each other when she gets caught up in a discussion; how she gives each assignment her full focus; how she is proud and stubborn and competitive, but also loyal to her classmates and willing to learn from criticism.

_Her contributions to the class were many._

She remembers the intense interest he took in whatever she said during class, the way he would cant his head slightly to the side and listen as if she were the only person in the room. The many times he followed her to the door of the emptying classroom as she hurried to finish one more comment, his hands tucked neatly behind his back, his eyes reflecting patience—even bemusement. Her conviction that despite what she knows about Vulcans, she has sensed undercurrents of emotion when he looks at her, when he speaks to her—distress and relief and something else, too, which she can't quite believe or name.

She looks up and sees Professor Ellison waiting.

"I'm—I'm sorry," she stutters. "I really don't know what he meant at all."

Professor Ellison straightens in his chair. "It doesn't matter," he says. "The rest of the recommendation is plenty. Congratulations. You're headed to the moon."

**A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who sent well wishes and encouragement for chapter one!**

**Historically, the second chapter of ANY story is the least reviewed…probably the "been there done that" feeling for readers, so thanks for taking the time and effort to let me know your thoughts about this one. Your words are my best reward!**


	3. The Query

**Chapter Three: The Query**

**Disclaimer: All play and no work makes this author poor. Happy, but poor.**

Admiral Nishiki looks up from her computer screen and nods once at Spock. Her short gray hair and dark eyes give her a weighty air, even when she smiles as she does now.

"Impressive, Commander. I didn't think it was possible to make the _Kobayashi Maru_ any more stressful, but you have."

Sitting across from the Admiral in her office, Spock waits until she touches the screen to pause the simulation. In the sudden silence of the room he hesitates for a moment before speaking.

"I have been assisted in this upgrade by Cadet Farlijah-Endef, an Orion second-year. Her contributions to the programming have added a layer of complexity to the scenario."

"Indeed," Admiral Nishiki says, her eyes hooded, her expression difficult to read. "So you consider your collaboration successful?"

Of course he does; he just indicated as much. The Admiral's question is frankly baffling. With a ghost of a frown, Spock says, "I do."

"Then you are not opposed to collaborating with cadets. You don't consider such work a misuse of your time."

Again Spock is baffled. "As I said, Cadet Farlijah-Endef's contributions to the upgrade are both considerable and valued."

"Good, good," Admiral Nishiki says, looking away. Her face flushes slightly and she rubs her brow quickly with her right hand, signs of nervousness in some humans. Spock can recall nothing he has done to account for the Admiral's unease. Nevertheless, he feels his own anxiety rising in response—a learned reaction to growing up with a human parent, no doubt. Taking a deep breath, he wills his heartbeat back to normal.

Admiral Nishiki take a deep breath of her own. "I'm glad to hear it. A Starfleet instructor's position involves more than lecturing, you know. You have to be available to your students, to guide them inside the classroom and out. Meet with them not just on your time but on theirs as well."

"Agreed," Spock says. Last semester as part of his performance review Admiral Feldman noted that he needed to increase his office hours, something Spock had done immediately. Perhaps Admiral Nishiki is unaware? He starts to point it out but she hurries on.

"Commander, no one questions your abilities as a teacher. Your lessons are clear and concise, and your students give you high marks in this area."

Spock knows all this. He stifles his impatience at her stating the obvious.

"However," she says, making eye contact with him at last, "your students consistently rate your accessibility much lower."

"I have doubled my office hours—"

"I'm not talking about office hours," Admiral Nishiki says. "I mean _accessibility_ —or maybe _approachability_ is more accurate. Cadets need to be able to come to you when they don't understand the lecture, or they need clarification. Your students say they are reluctant to do so."

To his horror, Spock feels himself bristle. "Cadets can and do ask for clarification."

If Admiral Nishiki hears the note of annoyance in his voice, she doesn't show it. Instead, she waves one hand dismissively and says, "Some do, yes. But many more say that they find you…intimidating. They feel you would not welcome their questions."

Untrue, of course. If he is honest, he finds pleasure in the intellectual give and take of questions asked and answered, of precepts challenged and defended. In his biolinguistics seminar last spring, Cadet Uhura often asked him for more detailed explanations during his lectures, and more than once she had expressed open skepticism about some point of contention. She was not reluctant. She was not intimidated.

With a start, Spock realizes that he can't remember any other students being quite so _free_.

"I—" he stammers, suddenly unsure what to say. Admiral Nishiki gives him an unblinking stare.

"I'm well aware that this may be a matter of cultural misunderstanding," she says. "Your Vulcan demeanor may be misinterpreted as aloofness when you don't intend such an impression. Human cadets, in particular, may be looking for some sort of reassurance that is unfamiliar to you."

There's no reason Admiral Nishiki would know that Spock is intimately familiar with human customs and quirks—he's tried to keep his personal life private and separate from his professional one, partly out of a sense of propriety, but also because his father's diplomatic work means that Sarek does, from time to time, make decisions that affect what happens in Starfleet. Still, Spock struggles not to be irritated at the Admiral's assumption that he needs instruction on human emotions. He steadies his breathing and says, "What do you suggest?"

Admiral Nishiki exhales loudly and sits back in her chair.

"I'm glad you've increased your office hours. That's a start. But it would also help if you had regular opportunities to assist students one-on-one. Dean Z'Aider tells me that the professor who ran the language lab has accepted a position at a civilian university and is leaving at the end of the summer. I want you to manage that lab. I know it's not your area of specialty, but as long as you are teaching some of the language courses, you will know the students who need that sort of extra help."

Spock blanks his expression and sits silently. Despite her conciliatory tone, the Admiral is not offering him a choice. Protesting that his schedule as an instructor in two departments—computer science and language—is already too full and that his own projects will suffer is out of the question, and patently false. With a minimum of reorganization, he can manage his time.

Whether he _wants_ to is another matter.

The idea of spending time in close proximity to students in the lab is unappealing at best. Glancing up at the Admiral, Spock sees firsthand what he already surmises: He has no choice.

"This needn't be an undue burden," the Admiral adds. "I don't know if you are aware, but the Dean has approved teachers' aides for all full time instructors next year. If you haven't already started interviewing candidates, you might want to include running the language lab as part of the duties."

Spock has, in fact, considered—and rejected—the idea of hiring a TA. Anything a TA could do—lecture, file, organize and post notes—he can do himself more efficiently. And with fewer distractions. When he had, briefly, imagined offering a TA position to Cadet Uhura, he had been…overwhelmed. Even working with Cadet Farlijah-Endef on the _Kobayashi Maru_ programming has been something of a trial, her ebullience tiring.

"That idea doesn't appeal to you?" the Admiral says, and Spock realizes that he's let his expression slip.

"I would prefer to work alone," he says. The Admiral's frown is immediate and unmistakable.

"See," she says, "that's what I'm talking about. You aren't making an effort to be approachable. A TA can be a liaison, if you will. Someone your students might be more comfortable approaching first—or in tandem with you. If you don't know any suitable candidates, I can have the Dean's secretary send you a list."

She reaches forward to her computer and Spock has an unaccountable moment of panic.

"I have someone in mind." His words tumble out so swiftly that Admiral Nishiki blinks in surprise. She pulls back her hand and nods.

"Very well," she says. "Though if you have not found someone before the beginning of the term, let me know."

Spock accepts this for what it is, a mild chastisement in the guise of a dismissal, and he says, "Understood," leaving her office as quickly as he can without drawing undue attention to himself.

He heads at once for the programming lab in the computer science building. In addition to a subspace communications console, there's an active direct link to the lunar relay station. Feeling a wash of relief that Cadet Farlijah-Edef is not there, Spock sits at the console and taps in the code that connects him to the moon.

Without preamble he asks the communications officer on the other end to patch him to Cadet Uhura's station. The line hums with gentle static for a moment—long enough for Spock to feel a twinge of regret for acting so hastily. Perhaps it would be wiser to accept a candidate from the Dean's list, someone he doesn't know, someone less…less…

A noise on the line—his heart hammers in his ears—but, no. More static.

He pictures Cadet Uhura the last time he spoke with her, her PADD clasped in one hand, her other hand raised in farewell after she asked him for a recommendation for an internship on the lunar station. He'd seen her once after that, across the campus cafeteria, though he hadn't spoken to her then. The memory of the young male cadet leaning into her shoulder as they made their way through the crowd gives him an unexplained spasm in his side and he presses his fingers there, his heart fluttering like a hummingbird.

A snap and the communications officer is back.

"I'm sorry, Commander, but Cadet Uhura is not at her station at the moment. Do you wish to leave a message?"

For a moment Spock is too flustered to think.

"Do you know when she will return?"

"The duty roster shows she is on leave through the weekend. She took a transport to Earth but is scheduled to return by 1800 hours Sunday."

He cuts the connection then, without comment, feeling relief and despair in equal measure. He had been ready to explain the teaching assistant's position and offer it to her if she were interested. Now he'll have to write to her—not his best mode of communication.

It can't be helped. If he doesn't ask her now, she may find another TA position on her own. Professor Artura had expressed an interest in someone with her qualifications. He needs to ask Cadet Uhura right away—before she finds another offer, before he changes his mind. Although another cadet might be less…distracting, working with an unknown assistant offers a different set of obstacles to overcome.

What was it his mother used to say? _Better the devil you know?_

Pulling out his PADD, he turns his attention to the query at hand—with more than a little trepidation.

X X

The bar is so noisy that LaChanda Anaga'Nwoke, Nyota's best friend from home, has to raise her voice to be heard.

"You're so lucky!" she says, flicking through the photographs on the comm in her hand. Occasionally she pauses and Nyota obliges with commentary.

It's Nyota's comm, and the pictures are mostly of the lunar station—computer work banks, narrow hallways, the commissary with displays of pre-packaged food, a hazy shot of the forlorn lunar landscape from the observation window. LaChanda enlarges a close up of a fellow male intern and holds the comm up at eye level.

"He's cute," she says, darting a glance at Nyota.

Nyota laughs. "He's sweet, too," she says.

"And?"

LaChanda pushes her shoulder into Nyota's, punctuating her question.

"And what?" Nyota counters. "We're too busy for anything but work."

"Well," LaChanda says, tabbing through more pictures, "you're still lucky. How many people get to work on the moon?"

It's true, and with a stab of guilt, Nyota knows she should be more grateful. Even in the age of space travel, most people are Earth-bound most of their lives. Indeed, the chance to get into space is one of the main reasons Nyota is at the Academy.

The internship isn't really space, after all. It's just routine work on the moon—not the kind of assignment Nyota is working toward. She's already seen her future—a starship still being built in the cornfields of Iowa.

A shrill chirp and LaChanda holds out the comm to Nyota. "I think someone's calling you."

"Just a mail notification," Nyota says, glancing down. She starts to put her comm away when she sees that the note has been flagged priority. "Oh!" she says, surprised. "It's from the Academy. I need to check this."

While LaChanda makes her way to the bar to refresh their drinks, Nyota opens the mail.

_To Cadet Nyota Uhura, from Commander Spock—_

Nyota is so startled that she stops reading and glances at the origination code. It's the Academy, alright, and it appears to be Commander Spock's personal address.

_I trust that your summer internship has been and continues to be instructive. As you undoubtedly know, teaching assistantships are being offered to qualified cadets for all full time instructors beginning in the fall semester. In addition to teaching two sections of advanced xenolinguistics, I have been tasked with operating the language practice lab. Although I can maintain a satisfactory schedule without auxiliary help, Admiral Nishiki has advised me that I am to select a suitable teaching assistant. Your skills make you an acceptable candidate. If this interests you, please contact me as soon as possible._

"What's wrong?" LaChanda says, setting two tall glasses of amber beer on the small round table. "You look upset."

"I don't know," Nyota says, frowning. "It's this note from one of my instructors. At least I think it's from him. My roommate is working for him this summer. She might have hijacked his address so she can play a joke on me."

"Why, what's it say?"

"I think he's asking me to apply for a job."

"That's good, right?"

"I don't know," Nyota says, picking up her beer. In fact, she's pretty sure a job with Commander Spock would be a very bad idea. It's not just that he can be maddeningly obtuse at times, even deliberately hard to get along with. It's the way she has trouble getting a read on him, the sense she has that he is never fully _there_ , always holding something in reserve.

That's not quite it, either. There's something else, some pent up energy that he hides, or doesn't acknowledge, like the lions she's seen in the nature preserve near her home, their casual, ambling gait lulling foolish antelopes into danger.

With a shrug and a laugh at her silly metaphor, Nyota rereads the note.

"Basically," she says over the noise of the music, "he says he's being forced to hire a TA and he might as well hire someone like me."

"He didn't say that!" LaChanda says. Nyota grins.

"Almost," she says. "See this? When someone says an Admiral _advises_ you to do something, that means you are being ordered. He's being forced to hire a teaching aide against his will."

"Then don't accept it," LaChanda says. "Since he doesn't really want you."

"Agreed," Nyota says, but the rest of the evening one part of her mind keeps returning to the note, even as she acts the part of a good friend, laughing and listening and sharing stories.

Hours later she tumbles into bed in her childhood bedroom, her sports trophies and academic awards on one wall, a shelf of souvenirs from a camping trip to Tanzania when she was 12 against the opposite wall. PADDs and tapes and even two actual paper books fill the bookshelf beside her bed. Stretched across the quilt her grandmother stitched for her years ago, Nyota pulls out her comm and rereads Commander Spock's note.

Once again she is struck by how stilted it sounds, how awkwardly phrased. Commander Spock's word choices are often unusual, his emphasis on a particular word or the way he elongates certain vowels or clips certain end consonants a dead give away that he is a non-native Standard speaker. Fluent but lacking the native's singular ease with the language.

His writing is another step back—sounding even more abrupt than he does when he speaks, more utilitarian, perhaps, or overly functional. Toneless. Yes, that's it. What she's looking for—and not finding—is the tone behind his words.

This time she reads between the lines, searching for the genuine meaning.

There's emotion there, though tucked out of sight. A genuine concern about her well-being. An irritation that the practice lab is being foisted on him. A rueful admission that he is being forced to hire an assistant. Praise—spare, to be sure—that she is an _acceptable_ candidate.

And something else, too. What he doesn't say—the reason he is being forced to hire an assistant. The very real anxiety in his request that she contact him "as soon as possible." Why? The job doesn't begin for another month. Surely there's plenty of time to apply and be interviewed?

Except that this isn't an offer to apply. With a jolt, she realizes the job is hers if she wants it.

Is it always going to take this much work to figure out what he means? If this simple note is any indication, she should probably tell him right now that she's not interested.

The next morning when her mother gets up, Nyota is already in the kitchen, the tea on the hob, grilled bread and sliced fruit laid out.

"What's this?" her mother says, pleasantly surprised. Nyota feels a stab of guilt that she hasn't visited more, hasn't helped more around the house when she does. She's acted like a visitor instead of like family, and she's suddenly ashamed.

"I'm celebrating," she says, pouring a cup of tea for her mother. "I might have just made the best decision of my life. Or the worst. I'll tell you next semester after I start my new job."

**A/N: Thanks for going to the trouble of leaving a review. I appreciate your time and energy more than you can know. It's the best kind of pay!**


	4. Sticky Notes

**Chapter Four: Sticky Notes**

**Disclaimer: Borrowed with love, nothing sold.**

As soon as she reaches the top of the stairwell, Nyota hears the soft murmur of Commander Spock's voice. The door to his office is open, the light on, but the Commander's voice is the only one she hears. He's on a comm call, then, not meeting with a visitor. She slows and comes to a halt several feet from the door, unwilling to intrude on his conversation.

Almost at once she hears a slight scuff, as if he has shifted in his chair. Putting his comm away in a pocket? Waiting a few seconds more to make sure he's finished his call, she starts forward and hesitates briefly in the doorway.

Though he's facing away from her, from the cant of his head Nyota knows that he's aware of her, that he probably ended his call prematurely because she could overhear him. That idea flusters her and makes her feel like an unwanted intruder. Well, there's no help for it. She _is_ a few minutes early for her shift—but in the two weeks since she began working as his teacher's assistant, she's been early more often than not. He should expect her by now.

"Good morning, Commander," she says as she crosses the distance between them and comes even with his desk. "I'm sorry if I interrupted you."

His expression doesn't change but she senses a flicker in his mood, as if a dark cloud has just passed in front of the sun. Then he blinks and whatever she saw—or thought she saw—disappears.

"You did not," he says. "My cousin had concluded what he wanted to say."

"Your cousin!" Nyota's hand is over her mouth almost as soon as she utters it—embarrassed to sound so shocked. But she is. The Commander is so self-contained, so private that she's never before imagined him with a family. And with a cousin! Extended family—aunts, uncles, little Vulcan cousins. She lowers her hand and grins in spite of herself. "I'm sorry, Commander, it's just that—"

Meeting his eyes, she sees that dark cloud drift by again and her grin fades. "I'm sorry," she says again. "I hope it wasn't bad news."

"Uncertain," Commander Spock says. "My father took ill several days ago and may require treatment for a heart condition. I was unaware—until my cousin's call."

"Oh!"

Nyota is so busy unwinding all the layers of meaning in the Commander's words that she doesn't know what else to say. As hard as it is to picture the Commander with cousins, imagining his father is harder. Do Vulcan parents not tell their children when they are ill? Is speaking of medical conditions some sort of taboo? Yet the Commander's cousin knew—and felt Spock should know. What does that say about the lines of communication between the father and his son?

"I—I hope your father is going to be okay." Her words sound small for such a weighty concern. Darting a glance at the Commander, she sees him nod once and turn to his computer screen.

Nyota goes to the table the Commander has set up in the corner for her use, sets down her messenger bag, and pulls out a piece of heavy card stock. Holding it up, she says, "Do you mind if I post this in the workroom? It's an announcement about the Chorale concert tonight. I know it's late, but someone might see it and decide to come."

It's a colorful poster slightly larger than a normal flimplast, a throwback to a time when such announcements were typically printed on paper and displayed on bulletin boards, road sign poles, doors—anywhere students might see them. Now digital scrolling screens dot the campus and upcoming events are advertised through electronic mail and newsletters. All the more reason to put up something retro and surprising—the better to compete with all that data.

The Chorale poster has a photograph of the members superimposed on an expressionist design of musical notations. Nyota's already sent one to her mother as a souvenir—and a gentle chastisement for not coming to the concert, though she understands that a trip to San Francisco would be an extravagance. Still, she's being featured as a soloist and she's uncharacteristically nervous about it. Having her mother in the audience would have been calming—or at least, appreciated.

Commander Spock says, "You are a member of the Chorale Ensemble?"

"Vice-President," Nyota says. At once she's embarrassed, not of her hard-won accomplishment but for offering an unasked for detail about herself. It's something she does easily with friends and even new acquaintances. It is not the kind of familiarity the Commander seems to want and Nyota blinks and looks away.

"Please," she hears him say, and when she looks up, his hand is extended. With a start, she steps to his desk and gives him the poster.

For almost a minute he examines it so intently that she begins to feel uncomfortable, certain that he will tell her that posting it in the workroom is against some rule or regulation.

Then suddenly without looking at her he gives it back and says, "You may post it."

"Thank you," Nyota says, and then on an impulse, she says, "You should come. I mean, if you like music. We perform all sorts, not just Terran music."

She stumbles to a stop as the Commander turns slightly in his chair and eyes her.

"I appreciate many types of music," he says. It's such a rare offering—telling her something personal about himself—that she straightens and smiles.

"I wasn't sure if Vulcans sang," she says. "I'd love to hear some Vulcan music."

"Most sentient species have an equivalent vocalization of singing," Commander Spock says matter-of-factly, and Nyota hides a smile at his deft sidestep. She'll have to work harder to get him to reveal any facts about himself.

"If you have some suggestions," she says, slipping into the chair beside his desk—his eyebrows lifting slightly as she does—"I'd love to bring those to the ensemble. We are always looking for representative selections for our concerts."

She's watching him so closely that she sees some sort of calculation going on in his expression—some decision he's coming to. Then drawing a breath, he says, "I am not as familiar with Vulcan vocal music as I am with the instrumental variety. The Vulcan lyre—the _ka'athyra_ —is the instrument I know best."

For an awkward moment Nyota remembers her first day of working for the Commander when he opened his mail and found a Vulcan lyre inside. When she'd asked to hold it he pulled away abruptly, warning her that the human oils in her fingertips could damage the wood. For several days she smarted as if someone had struck her, until at last she confided to Gaila how alien, how _unworthy_ , the Commander's words made her feel.

"Now you know," Gaila said, her chin tucked down to her collarbone. "Humans say thoughtless things like that to me all the time—to all of us who are off-worlders. Besides, how do you know he wasn't just telling you the truth—that Vulcan wood can't withstand human touch? Maybe you're blowing this all out of proportion."

Nyota's face had flushed, first that anyone would say something deliberately hurtful to Gaila, but also at the belated realization that she had been oblivious to such human slights, perhaps even uttering them herself with a thoughtlessness that shames her now.

If the Commander feels any uneasiness at the allusion to that disastrous first day of work, he doesn't show it.

"You play?" Nyota asks.

"I do. But my father is the more accomplished musician."

The mention of his father brings back the dark tone in his voice, in his eyes. Without thinking, Nyota lifts her hand to place it on his forearm, a note of sympathy—but Commander Spock's expression shifts suddenly and she lets her palm land on the desk instead. What had she seen in his face? Not panic, but something close to it. With a jerk, she hops to her feet.

"I'll go put this up now," she says as she backs out of the office. When she returns he is busy with something on his computer and he doesn't acknowledge her. Without comment, she goes to her own computer and begins the task of sorting and filing his mail.

By noon her stomach is rumbling so loudly that she's sure the Commander can hear it.

"Do you want me to bring you anything?" she asks, knowing he will turn her down as he always does.

She grabs a salad in the cafeteria and eats in a corner alone—even ducking once when she sees Gaila come in, hoping her roommate will find someone else for company. Otherwise Nyota will get caught up in whatever drama Gaila wants to discuss today—and end up being late getting back to the language lab which she is scheduled to open and run all afternoon.

As she always does she sprints up the three flights of stairs to the language offices, her breathing only becoming labored on the last turn. As she pauses to catch her breath on the landing, she sees that the lab lights are off, a small square of yellow paper on the glass inset of the door. As she gets closer she sees that it is a sticky note—a throwback to the days when paper was commonly used to send messages. At first glance she thinks it is an illustration for something, but on closer examination she recognizes the Commander's handwriting, small and neat but also hinting at the flourishes characteristic of Vulcan script. For a moment she marvels at the beauty of the words without trying to comprehend their meaning.

_The language lab is closed for the rest of the afternoon. Practice sessions will be rescheduled at a later time._

Confusion, dismay, relief—she feels all three as she rereads the note. Why hadn't the Commander told her he was going to cancel the lab sessions? Has an emergency come up, perhaps worse news about his father? She hurries down the hall to his office. The door is open and the lights and his computer are still on, but the Commander is nowhere in sight. He's not leaving nor apparently planning to.

Is he canceling the lab and sending her home because he's upset with the personal tone their conversation had taken? The look he had given her when her hand had crept toward his arm—shock or dismay or anxiety? Her cheeks grow hot at the memory.

She sees a second sticky note, this one on her desk. Tugging at the weak adhesive, she pulls it up and cradles it in her palm.

_The afternoon is yours to prepare for the concert._

A gift, then, not to have to run the lab this afternoon. She gives an audible sigh of relief. This gives her time to settle herself before the concert—even time to go for a run by the waterfront to burn off some of her nervous energy.

Packing her bag, she sees the stack of unused sticky notes on the Commander's desk, and for the second time that day, she gives in to impulse, plucks one off, and picks up a pen.

_I hope you make it to the concert._

Nothing inappropriate or even particularly intimate about that. Part of her duties as the vice-president, in fact, to drum up more of an audience. She's not asking for a commitment—just making a suggestion.

Yet for the rest of the afternoon her mind is divided in two—part of her hoping Commander Spock reads more into her sticky note and part of her horrified that he might.

Even as she's warming up in the wings and getting ready to process on stage and mount the risers, she finds herself brushing back the heavy velvet curtain to scan the crowd. Until the house lights go down she's still looking as people take their seats, but she sees no one who could be mistaken for a Vulcan, no one at all.

Then with a rueful laugh at herself, she takes her place and walks onto the stage to scattered applause.

X X

"You look tired," Amanda says. Spock's first impulse is to deny it—as he often denies his mother's assumptions about him. It's an old habit, and at some level, immature on his part and unworthy of his mother's genuine concern. Still, old habits die hard, and Spock frowns slightly and says, "I am fine, Mother."

He's in the basement of the language building in the small, cramped room that houses an auxiliary subspace transmitter. He could have waited until the evening to call home on his portable unit in his apartment, but his mother will be awake now.

"Did Chris tell you what the healers said?" Amanda asks, and for the first time Spock realizes that she is the one who looks tired, not a surprise if Sarek is having symptoms of heart failure.

"Just that medication has been prescribed," Spock says. Amanda nods and goes on.

"They want to try that first, of course. If it doesn't correct the arrhythmia, your father may be facing surgery."

"He has multiple options, then," Spock says. Belatedly he realizes that he should have said nothing. His mother visibly bristles.

"Well, yes," she says. "But that doesn't make it less worrying! I wish he didn't have to deal with this at all."

This time Spock says nothing but waits for his mother's irritation with him to pass. In a moment she sighs and says, "He's out in the garden. You should speak to him."

Her look is so hopeful that Spock feels a twinge of regret at disappointing her.

"Later," he says, "when I am able to speak at length. I am at work and will be leaving shortly."

That's not the reason he doesn't want to speak to his father, and they both know it. Whenever he and Sarek do speak, Starfleet—and Spock's choice over the Vulcan Science Academy—becomes a point of contention. Not often in words, but in the undertone of disapproval Spock senses from his father.

"Then call when you get home," his mother says.

They both know he won't, but Spock feels the need to give a different reason why.

"I may be busy with a social engagement after I leave work this evening."

Amanda's face lights up. "A social engagement! Tell me about it!"

"A campus concert," he says, feeling her mood dim slightly. From time to time she occasionally chides him about not making time for friends or colleagues outside of work—though Spock goes to lengths to reassure her that he is neither lonely nor discontent. "My new teaching assistant is a member of the Chorale and she suggested that I attend."

"You have a new assistant?" Amanda's voice is quizzical, her eyebrows raised—she's on what she herself would call "a fishing trip," trying to ferret out information.

"Cadet Ellison graduated two semesters ago and has accepted a post on a starship. Cadet Uhura has taken his place."

Spock and Amanda have spoken more than once about the difficulty he's had with TA's. Until Cadet Ellison, no one had lasted an entire semester as his assistant. After Cadet Ellison graduated, Spock had been reluctant to hire another TA—until, of course, Admiral Nishiki insisted.

He isn't certain that Cadet Uhura will last the semester either. Although she was an exemplary student, working with her in close quarters has been unsettling somehow, though he is at a loss to understand why.

Amanda peers at him across subspace on the screen, a slight frown on her face. Surprising himself, Spock blurts out, "Perhaps my attendance at the concert would be…inappropriate, or confusing. I am, after all, Cadet Uhura's supervisor."

At that Amanda's expression changes—her mouth quirking up and her eyes flashing.

"Spock, it's just a concert! Surely you have the right to attend it, regardless of who is performing."

"But—" Once more Spock astonishes himself by speaking too quickly. Old habits again. His mother always could winkle out a confession from him—a glance, a tap of her foot, one hand on her hip, and he offered up any detail she asked of him—not that he was deceptive by nature but because she was such an overwhelming presence in his life that he needed to keep her at arm's length, her emotions draining him at times.

"But what? It is frowned on at Starfleet? That doesn't seem very practical to me."

"Starfleet has no proscriptions against faculty attending public functions where students are performing," Spock says. "Our attendance is encouraged as a show of support."

"Then what's the problem? Don't you want to go?"

"I believe that Cadet Uhura expects me to attend. Although I had not planned on going, I am reluctant to give offense with my absence. She is, after all, an officer in the ensemble."

The wrinkles at the corner of his mother's eyes deepen.

"You find this amusing," he says, struggling to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

"Not at all!" his mother says, and he looks at her closely. "I'm glad you are getting out and doing something instead of working all the time. I'm just…surprised…that's all, that you are dithering over whether or not to go. You're usually so decisive about things."

Now Spock doesn't bother to hide his annoyance. "I do not dither. If I hesitate now, it is because I am unsure about Cadet Uhura's meaning in the note she left."

"She left you a note?"

"I canceled her afternoon duties so that she might prepare for the concert tonight. She left a note expressing her hope that I would attend."

"And you're worried that her feelings will be hurt if you don't go?"

But that's not it at all, Spock realizes. Cadet Uhura is, for a human, unusually level-headed and rational. She would not have _hurt feelings_ over something so trivial.

No, his hesitation is less about what going means to _her_ and more about what it means to _him_.

His heart speeds up and to hide his discomfort he says, "If I continue this conversation much longer, Mother, the decision will be moot. The concert begins shortly."

With an audible sigh, Amanda says, "Very well. But do call your father when you can. He needs to hear from you."

The concert hall is in the center of the campus but the language building is close to the west gate several minutes away, even at a fast clip. By the time he arrives, the house lights are down and the ushers—two students handing out old-fashioned programs—have taken seats in the back of the auditorium.

Only half of the seats are occupied—a detail that Spock notes with more than passing concern. No wonder Cadet Uhura was still putting up concert notices this afternoon. After so much preparation, the lack of a sufficient audience might negatively affect the Chorale's performance.

As he slips into an empty seat on the aisle, Spock waves back one of the ushers who half-rises, ready to hand him a program. The odds are the program notes will add nothing to the music that he doesn't already know—and if the Chorale does sing something unfamiliar, he can look up any extra information himself.

The first two pieces are, indeed, familiar to him—Terran tone poems by modern composers, dichromatic syncopated works that highlight the Chorale's technical skills. An Orion mourning song follows, the high notes haunting and evocative. Then Cadet Uhura steps down from the risers and takes her place in front of the group, the lights on the stage dimming while a spotlight illuminates her like a single candle.

Her voice starts out low and rises slowly, _a capella_ , and as it does, Spock gives an involuntary shiver. The song is unfamiliar, but from the lyrics he deduces that it is a Terran lullaby. Soon enough he stops listening to the words and hears only the notes, clear and crystalline and hanging suspended in the air above his head, as if for him alone.

A dangerous illusion—and a foolish decision to come. When the crowd begins to applaud at the end of the song, he feel released, like someone suddenly freed from a trap. He carefully makes his way out of the auditorium and into the chilly night air of San Francisco, troubled by the hitch in his side he can't explain, certain only that he has had a narrow escape.

**A/N: This chapter makes a glancing reference to Chapter One of "What We Think We Know" and Nyota's first day as Spock's TA. I hope that wasn't confusing!**

**Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing. Your reviews are what keep authors going!**


	5. Tete-a-Tea

**Chapter Five: Tete-a-tea**

**Disclaimer: No profit from this labor of love.**

Nyota sets a small bag on Commander Spock's desk.

"I brought you a gift," she says. "Open it."

For a fraction of a second she thinks he will refuse and she nods encouragement, adding, "I got a care package from my mother this morning. She always sends me more than I can use. I still have the _ugali_ she sent me last time, so here. Try it. I think you'll like it."

She's not making idle speculation. In the past month she and the Commander have fallen into the habit of eating a mid-day meal together several times a week when their schedules allow—nothing fancier than brown bagging it in the language building workroom, but it's given her some insight into what he eats.

Not much, if lunch is typical; usually fruits or vegetables or simple grains. _Ugali_ is the ubiquitous starch eaten through much of Africa, cooked like polenta or grits and fashioned into an accompaniment for stews and meat dishes. Nyota isn't completely sure Vulcans can digest it, though she's seen him eat rice and corn, which are similar in biocomplexity.

The Commander 's expression is unreadable and he makes no move to open the bag. Is giving a gift to a Vulcan a cultural _faux pas_?

"You seem…unsure, or something," Nyota says, hoping he will explain his hesitation. He blinks, leans forward slightly, and peers inside the bag. When he looks up, Nyota says, "I'll write out the cooking directions for you. That is, if you want to try it."

"Thank you," Spock says simply, and Nyota hazards a small smile. As she starts toward her work station in the corner, she hears him say, "Care packages from mothers must be a constant in the universe."

At that Nyota laughs—and she's about to ask him what Vulcan mothers send their distant sons when his computer beeps, a notice that he has an audio message in the mail queue.

Stepping to the door, she says, "I'll just go get some tea," hoping he understands that she is granting him his privacy.

Professor Artura's TA, Neil, is the only other person in the workroom, and he jumps slightly when Nyota comes in. Short, freckled, shy, Neil has a crush on Nyota—or she assumes he does. Whenever she tries to talk to him he flushes hard, his face turning as red as his hair.

"Hey," she says, and sure enough, he blushes and knocks over the cup at his elbow.

"Oops!" Nyota says handing him a dish towel from the counter to clean up the mess. "Is that tea? I'll make you another cup. I was going to make some for myself."

"Uh, you can't," Neil says, pointing to the empty clear glass container on the sink counter. "I used the last tea bag."

"Commander Spock has some," Nyota says, opening the cabinet door over the sink. To her astonishment, Neil hops up and leaves without a word.

She's so flabbergasted that her hand is around Commander Spock's tea canister before she feels the slick paper stuck to the side. It's an address label, a rectangle of sticky-backed paper used to route physical documents between Academy departments. The canister is a piece of Vulcan hand-thrown pottery, small and rough to her fingers, the size and heft of a large grapefruit. Lifting it up, she reads Commander Spock's calligraphic-like handwriting, neat and small.

_Do not remove._

Well! That's new! She flushes as hard as Neil had, her cheeks burning. Is this note directed at her? She's brewed herself multiple cups of Vulcan tea—even commenting on its pleasant smoky quality to the Commander. If he hadn't wanted her to help herself to it, he should have said something.

Perhaps his Vulcan tea is rare and hard to get, part of his occasional care packages from home, and he's concerned with how rapidly it's disappearing now that she's drinking it, too. But if that were the case, he could have told her not to drink it. She circles around this conundrum again, still baffled.

No use getting her feelings hurt. It's his tea; he can do whatever he wants to with it. As she starts to replace the canister in the cabinet, she looks at the label again.

_Do not remove._

Something about the label is wrong—suggesting a selfishness or possessiveness she hasn't sensed before in the Commander. Surely he doesn't mean what the label implies.

Looking around the workroom, she sees ink styluses in a cup on a table. With a quick glance to make sure no one is coming, she grabs one, angling the tea canister in her left hand while she writes on the label with her right.

_Please be more precise. To what does this refer?_

Before she shuts the door of the cabinet, she turns the canister to make sure the label is face out.

Stepping out into the hall a few minutes later, she hears silence. Commander Spock's finished listening to his audio message then. As she walks back to the office she struggles to contain a grin. It fades as soon she sees him.

He's clearly nonplussed about something. So much for that vaunted Vulcan stoicism. In the short time she's worked in close quarters with him she's seen him bemused, annoyed, anxious, pleased—not in such an obvious way that a casual observer would note, but she's not a casual observer.

An uncomfortable admission, but there it is.

Before she can decide how to ask him about the message, he excuses himself and says he might not return before her shift ends in the afternoon.

He leaves in such a hurry that his computer screen is up, an email address visible. She's careful not to look too closely but she can't help but notice that it's from Vulcan. Bad news about his father? The Commander hasn't mentioned his father since telling her that he was being treated for a heart condition.

Feeling like an interloper, she finishes up her work and runs the lab for two hours after lunch. She even waits around the office an extra fifteen minutes but Commander Spock doesn't return.

The next morning she beats him to work. Nyota can count on one hand the number of times she's done so. Almost always when she mounts the last stair of her three story climb, she looks down the hall and spies the light on in his office. She's halfway convinced that he works through the night and is still there in the morning, though she can't tell from his appearance—he's clean-shaven and unrumpled no matter when she sees him.

Today, however, when she steps on the top landing she notices that his office is dark. Although she has a key, she detours to the workroom instead to stow her lunch in the stasis unit and make herself a cup of tea.

With a sigh, she spots the empty glass container on the counter. She'll have to remember to cadge some tea bags from the cafeteria at lunch to restock it. For now, though—

Tugging open the cabinet door, she sees Commander Spock's tea canister, a new label replacing the old one.

_Do not remove this canister or its contents from this room._

For a split second Nyota doesn't breathe, and then she leans forward and bursts out laughing. More precise, yet not answering the real question about whether or not he minds sharing his tea. The Commander really needs to work on his communication skills.

X X

Spock finds the noise almost intolerable. The squeak of Cadet Uhura's chair when she leans back, the susurration of her hair sliding over her shoulder when she leans forward, the sudden intake of breath when she reads something amusing or surprising or upsetting. These sounds unmoor him, as if she is a magnet for his attention, regardless of what she is doing.

The scents are almost as disturbing—soap with an undertone of citrus, the crisp smell of her clean linen uniform, a hint of maple or oranges or chocolate on her thumb, an echo of her breakfast croissant.

Spock keeps his chair angled away from hers, yet his peripheral vision betrays him, seeking out the line of her jaw, the curve of her knee.

The last day he worked completely undisturbed was 57 days ago, the day before she became his teaching aide. His sleep has been disturbed as well, the sounds and smells and vision of Cadet Uhura troubling him when he closes his eyes, when he tries to meditate.

He blames himself for his lack of focus, his human biology tripping him up with an unwanted undercurrent of sexual arousal. But he blames T'Pring, too—the touch of her mind so light, her presence so distant, that he has nothing to steady him when he needs it most.

They'd parted in anger when he left for the Academy—T'Pring staying on Vulcan to study architecture, her disapproval of his choice of Starfleet rivaling his father's in intensity. Since then they've hardly spoken; he's seen her even less, and only when he's made infrequent trips home.

Recently he's contacted her on subspace—or tried to—only to be told by her housekeeper that she is unavailable. His letters have gone unanswered.

When he mentioned her silence to his mother, she was shocked—not just that T'Pring hasn't returned his messages, but that his sense of her through their bond is so tenuous.

"Do you want your father to contact the K'Loh'r T'Mirs?" his mother asked. To Spock's surprise, he didn't reject that idea out of hand.

"Perhaps," he said slowly, "after I have attempted to contact T'Pring again. She may be off-planet or without access to communication devices."

His mother didn't try to hide her skepticism, one eyebrow hiked up, her lips pressed into a grimace.

But that had been ten days ago, and his attempts to contact T'Pring since have been equally fruitless.

Meanwhile his attempt to find some equilibrium within himself has been just as wasted. He's increased the rigor of his regular _suus mahna_ workouts; lengthened his work hours; deepened his meditative trances. Still he's uncharacteristically irritated by small things—a student asking to turn in a late assignment, an unproductive department meeting. His tea canister going missing for a day earlier in the week—until he spotted it on Professor Artura's desk.

"I hope you don't mind," Professor Artura said, his blue antennae bobbing in apology—or in shame at being caught, "but today is an Andorian remembrance day for absent friends, and I need something from Vulcan to honor a friend who lives there. I intend to return this later, after I finish my ritual supplications."

An implausible story, but not impossible. Spock knows that the professor has not lived on Andoria since his wife and daughter were murdered in a blood feud. His travels could have taken him to Vulcan before he settled on Earth.

True to his word, Professor Artura did return the canister—but not that day or the next. Placing a _do not remove_ label on the canister seemed like a reasonable precaution against further poaching.

Of course, Cadet Uhura pointed out the need for specification—and he changed the label to make clear that the canister and its contents were for the workroom and not for Professor Artura's ceremonial use.

For the past 56 days—since Cadet Uhura has started working for him—Spock has worked at his office every weekend, grateful for the relative quiet and the lack of distractions. This Saturday he's so immersed in reviewing the results of a joint research project between the computer science and biochemistry labs that when he sits back in his chair at last, he realizes with a start that hours have passed, that he is both famished and thirsty. Tea, then, and another hour or so of writing up his comments before heading to his apartment for a meal.

As soon as he opens the cabinet in the workroom he sees that Cadet Uhura has edited his new label on the canister.

_Do not remove this canister or its contents from this room._ _**Unless you replace the contents with tea of superior quality, such as Kenyan single origin whole-leaf Pekoe.** _

For a moment he stares at it, uncomprehending. And then he understands. She thought the label was for her, a caution against using his tea.

He's horrified, and embarrassed to be horrified, in equal measure. This is the danger of working so closely with her—this sort of wrong-footing each other without meaning to.

Suddenly the office is too close, the language building too confining. Even as he gathers his things and locks his office, he knows he's not thinking clearly, that this little misunderstanding over the tea is just that, a misunderstanding and nothing more.

Yet a misunderstanding that implies something unpleasant about his character—an unwillingness to share, a materialistic attitude that is anathema to Vulcan ideals.

That Cadet Uhura sees him this way makes him feel almost physically unwell.

His apartment is just outside the east gate of the Academy grounds, a transport station across the street. The duty officer on charge at the gate nods as he exits but Spock is too busy noticing the arriving hoverbus. Sprinting across the street and stepping into the waiting queue of passengers, he checks to make sure that the hoverbus is heading to Sausalito, across the Bay. It is.

As he slides into the first empty seat, Spock takes a deep breath, frankly shocked to find himself there. Closing his eyes, he considers the reason he's acting impulsively. He's almost lightheaded, obviously the result of going without food or drink all day.

There's a teashop in Sausalito he's visited before, one that imports multiple varieties of Terran and off-world teas. He can break his fast there and buy some loose Vulcan tea to replenish his supply.

And although he's never thought to ask before, perhaps buy some Kenyan single origin whole-leaf Pekoe.

**A/N: Professor Artura and Spock have more than their fair share of misunderstandings…and this chapter alludes to the good professor's backstory that's told in more detail elsewhere. His time on Vulcan is mentioned in Chapter Six of "People Will Say."**

**Thanks to everyone who takes the time and effort to leave a review. Your notes keep me going.**


	6. Erasures

**Chapter Six: Erasures**

**Disclaimer: Making no money here.**

As Nyota snaps off the lights and locks Commander Spock's office at the end of her shift, she's already texting Gaila.

_Where r u? Need u. Will b there n 10. Stay._

Sighing, she slips her comm in her pocket and makes her way down the three flights of stairs to exit the language building, watching all the while for Commander Spock.

For three days in a row she's come to work but he hasn't. Or rather, he comes when she's not here, in the middle of the night, leaving a work PADD on her desk with a list of duties.

Such as this one from today:

_Open lab. Take packages to post office. Sort mail and forward personal notices._

The list is a statement of the obvious, things she does everyday. He hardly needs to remind her.

"I am aware that most humans are not gifted with eidetic memory," he told her once, back before their relationship had become so… _fraught_. Back when such a comment would have made her laugh, or at least smile.

"And Vulcans don't forget anything?" she had teased. His expression did not change.

"We do not," he said, and she pointed to the photo cube on the shelf in his office.

"Why do you need this? If you recall everything with perfect clarity?"

Most of the images on the photocube were of Vulcan—a sand-colored home, a rock-lined garden—but one was of a striking dark-eyed woman the Commander said was a _friend_ —said with a tone of voice that implied an unspoken intimacy. Ever since, Nyota has been curious. Or something.

Now that easy teasing seems unimaginable, their camaraderie built of casual lunches and innumerable conversations over cups of tea wiped away by the events of the last few weeks.

It all started the day she fell—she's sure of that now, if she wasn't before. Weakened by a sprain during a rougher than usual game of parrises squares, Nyota's ankle had given way suddenly when she stood up in the office one day, the Commander's quick reflexes saving her from hitting the ground.

His arms had circled her for only a moment—but it was long enough for her catch a glimpse of his unshuttered thoughts, as if the two of them had—in those few seconds—shared a mind.

Which, she realized, they had.

"Oh, yeah," Gaila said nonchalantly when Nyota broached the subject later, "a mind share, or _meld_ , I think they call it. That's why Vulcans are so careful not to touch anyone. Imagine what that must be like in bed when they do touch—"

"Gaila!"

"Well, maybe not," Gaila grinned. "I'd hate to wander around in a Vulcan's mind—all those boring mathematical equations—"

Nyota gave a reluctant snort and Gaila darted a glance in her direction. _If only she knew—_

Nyota's uneasiness came not from violating some Vulcan taboo or even from intruding in the Commander's privacy but from what she had seen there in his mind: Images of herself—not just as she was at that moment, slumped against his chest, his right arm keeping her from tumbling to the floor—but also as she has been since she's known him…sitting across from him in his classroom, leaning over a computer keyboard in the lab, reclining against one of the rickety chairs in the breakroom, lifting her hand and waving as she picked her way across the sunlit commons.

A collage of pictures of herself, or a kaleidoscope of bits and pieces as he sees her—the delicate bones of her wrist, the curve of her ear, the tilt of her chin. All stitched together like a quilt, and overlaid with a jumble of emotional echoes—pride and pleasure and amusement, and worrisome feelings, too, like discomfort and loneliness and longing.

When he'd flown to New York that same afternoon to visit friends from Vulcan—perhaps the _friend_ on the photocube—Nyota had half-convinced herself she'd imagined the entire thing—or at least was projecting her emotions, wrongly assigning her uneasy feelings to him. When he'd returned the next day—tight-lipped about his journey but nevertheless clearly disturbed—she'd tried to winkle out the cause before deciding it was none of her business.

Which of course it wasn't, except that whatever had happened in New York had shifted something in their communication, adding a restraint that is new.

He's avoiding her—coming into his office at night to leave her a list and then staying away during the day while she opens the lab and sorts his mail.

She's both relieved and dismayed that he's doing so. Relieved because the past few weeks have left her confused and uneasy—and if truth be told—anxious that she will slip up and reveal the all-too-human emotional undercurrent she feels when she's with him.

But she's also dismayed because she's never been one to dodge an uncomfortable situation, never one to duck away instead of facing something headlong. When she accepted this teaching assistantship she knew it would be a challenge—the Commander had a reputation for being a stickler, a perfectionist, an austere and demanding supervisor. Nyota didn't care. She _knew_ him already, had weathered two courses under him successfully. If he was a formidable presence in the classroom, he was also surprisingly engaging. She expected him to be the same as her supervisor. And he had been, for a time.

For a time they had continued their friendly sparring over shared lunches, over tea—their conversations ranging far and wide, her conviction growing that no one was as interesting to talk to as the Commander.

And for his part, he seemed to enjoy her company.

Until the fall. That literal fall had set a metaphorical one in motion, and whatever friendly relationship they had built started crumbling the day she landed in his arms.

Not that every time they are together they are at odds. When Commander Spock learned he was the winner of this year's Brodhead Prize for teaching, Nyota happily convinced him to accept it. When he gave a frankly emotional eulogy at the memorial for the _USS Camden_ dead, she alone understood what it cost him to publicly acknowledge his private grief.

But lately he's pulled away, leaving cryptic emails and work PADDs to communicate with her. She's done something to offend him, or to make him regret hiring her, but she can't sort out what. With a sigh she makes her way back to the dorm, her resolve to do something wavering as soon as she opens the door and hears Gaila's trilling laugh.

"Gotta go," Gaila says into her comm, and before Nyota can stop her, she snaps it shut and stands up to give a comical salute. "Reporting for duty, as ordered," she says, her red curls bobbing. "So, what's this all about?"

"I'm sorry," Nyota says, shifting her bag from her shoulder and sitting on her bed. "It's nothing."

Gaila cocks her head to the side. "It's _something_ ," she says, "or you wouldn't have told me to _stay_."

Nyota's face flushes. "Yeah, I'm sorry about that. That was out of line."

"Are you going to tell me what's going on? Because I turned down twelve hot dates just to be here with you now."

Only an Orion could make such a joke with impunity. Despite herself, Nyota laughs.

"Okay, okay," she says, holding up one hand. "I'm having trouble understanding something Commander Spock wrote."

Gaila cocks her head in the other direction. "And?"

"And," Nyota continues slowly, "I thought that since you work with him doing programming, you might help me figure it out."

Lifting one eyebrow, Gaila slumps onto her bed and leans against the headboard. "You're the communications expert, Ny. I'm just a coder."

Swallowing, Nyota says, "But I'm missing something, and I don't know what. He hasn't been to work for three days—"

"He's sick."

"I don't think so. But I don't know. He comes in when I'm not there and leaves me…this."

She pulls out the work PADD from that day and hands it to Gaila, who flips it on. "So? It's a list. What about it?" Gaila asks.

"It's just that it's a _stupid_ list," Nyota says. "I don't need it, and I don't know why the Commander would leave it for me."

Gaila shrugs. "Why don't you ask him?"

All at once Nyota feels the wind go out of her sails. Of course she should just ask him…but when she tries to imagine doing so, she falters. If he's pulling away already, a direct question might close communication down altogether.

"I, well, yes…I should—" she stumbles. From the corner of her eye she sees Gaila break into a wide grin.

"Or," Gaila says, holding up one finger, "I could use a time-stamp wyrm to uncover any edits to the list. Considering it's Commander Spock we're talking about, there probably aren't any. I bet he never changes anything once he writes it down. But if he has, we can see what he wrote originally. That might give you some idea into what's going on."

Gaila's tone is so excited, so conspiratorial, that Nyota eyes her intently. What her roommate is proposing is, if not outright unethical, at least questionably so. The wyrm will show all the versions of his note in reverse chronological order, even though Commander Spock only intended her to see the last one. She opens her mouth to tell her _no_ when Gaila adds, "What's the use of having a supercoder roommie if you never take advantage of what I can do? You said you want to know what the Commander means, right? Then you need to see everything he wrote. After all, everything he wrote was _for you_ , right? You aren't reading something he didn't intend for you to see—at least at one time."

Nyota still isn't convinced. Gaila goes on. "Here's the thing. I know how Commander Spock values economy in words. What he's probably done is try to logically whittle all the extraneous stuff out of this note—and he's just overshot the mark. There's nothing wrong with going back and recovering what he meant to say."

In one corner of her mind Nyota is sure this is wrong—but if it helps her understand why the Commander is so skittish around her, she's willing to silence the corner of her mind that is frantically waving a red flag—

"Okay," Nyota says, "but there's one catch. You can't tell anyone what we find out. Not anyone!"

"I'll do better than that," Gaila says, her fingers flying over the screen of the PADD. "I'll set the wrym in motion and then I'm going out. By the time you start to get a report on any edits, I'll be at Moe's on the dance floor with a beer in one hand and one of the twelve cadets I turned down in the other. I won't see a thing!"

_It's not too late to stop her,_ Nyota thinks, but even as she does, she knows she won't. Gratefully she takes the PADD from Gaila and settles back as her roommie scurries around getting dressed. Sure enough, by the time she's saying her goodbyes, the PADD is beeping and Nyota opens the screen to the note Commander Spock left today.

_Open lab. Take packages to post office. Sort mail and forward personal notices._

It's time-stamped 0121, and for a moment, Nyota thinks that Gaila may have been right about the Commander not needing to edit his work. This appears to be the only version—except that as she watches, a second version queues up behind it with a time-stamp twenty minutes earlier. She taps it open.

_Two students specifically asked that you be available to assist in the lab this afternoon. Both found the tutorial you wrote on Triskalien fricatives useful. In addition, I will be off campus when the post office is open, so your taking the packages there will be helpful. The packages include redundant hard copies of reports already sent via email so you do not need to hurry. Running this errand during your lunch break would suffice, especially since the cafeteria's proximity to the post office would make a single trip feasible. Finally, the odds are 89% that I will not be in the office today. Please forward any personal mail or notices to my comm queue. Everything else you can attend to with your usual efficiency._

Gradually as she reads, Nyota becomes aware that her mouth is open. He deleted this version? Why? She blinks and shakes her head. Compared to the bare bones note she did receive, this one is incredibly detailed—too detailed, in fact. And suddenly she knows why Commander Spock deleted it. A human wouldn't mind so much direction, but a Vulcan might find it…insulting—not that they would admit to it. He's assuming she shares his sensibility and he didn't want to offend her.

The PADD beeps a notice that yet another, earlier, version is in line. She tabs it open.

_Cadet Uhura, I have been remiss in not speaking to you earlier_

That's it? An incomplete sentence? And not even connected to the list of things he wanted her to do that day. Nyota rubs the crease on her forehead.

_I have been remiss_.

An apology? For what?

_I have been remiss in not speaking to you earlier_

He's apologizing for not speaking about something to her. With a leap of insight, she knows he is referring to her fall in his office. Neither has said a word about it, yet apparently both have thought about it since.

"Then we'll have to talk about it," she says aloud, partly to comfort herself with the sense that she is finally moving forward, and partly to cover the hammering of her heart. In her hand, the PADD beeps softly once more.

Yet another version, his first attempt. She opens it up.

_Nyota,_

That's it. Her name and nothing else. No, not nothing else. A comma afterward, as if her name is the salutation of an unwritten letter.

He's only called her by her name once—a private moment with nothing untoward about it—coupled, as it was, with a simple thank you—but sometimes in her dreams she hears him say it again, the slight breathiness of the middle vowel the only hint that Vulcan is his first language.

She looks at her name on the PADD.

_Nyota,_

He was going to say something about what happened that day in his office when her ankle gave way and she fell into his arms, into his mind, but his courage or his logic faltered and he deleted the evidence of his attempt. Did not say what she suspects—that the wordless yearning she thought was hers alone is not only understood but shared—

The unfinished letter is maddening, calling for a patience she doesn't feel. If she asks him about it—

She can't, of course. Doing so would mean admitting that she's seen his edited versions. Would humiliate him, to know that the track of his thoughts are on display like this.

With a vicious swipe, she toggles off the PADD, ashamed of seeing what she should not have seen, and grateful, too, that she has.

X X

Earth's moon is full tonight, something Spock notes without conscious effort, the same way he is aware that the ambient air temperature is 17 C/63 F, that the prevailing winds are from the east, that the humidity is 42% and falling. All this he gathers as he walks across the Academy grounds from his apartment to the language building. The only other people out and about are cadets doing late laps around the commons, training, perhaps, for the upcoming city-wide half-marathon.

Once inside the language building he ascends the stairs two at a time, the automatic lights flickering on to keep up with him. As a general rule Spock prefers quiet, but the silence of the empty building is almost unnerving. If he had better control he would not have to resort to coming in when he knows Cadet Uhura will not be here…but since the day he accidentally revealed how much she occupies his thoughts, he is safer staying apart, keeping his focus on the external world—the phases of the moon, the chill of the night air—rather than take the measure of his own internal atmosphere.

He opens his office and goes immediately to his desk to type up a list for Cadet Uhura. To his surprise a work PADD is already lit and propped up, as if someone has left it there for him to find.

Cadet Uhura, naturally. He picks up the PADD and reads the short message.

_Finished everything on the list. Let me know what else I can do to help._

An odd message. The first sentence is self-evident and therefore unnecessary. The second sentence is strangely phrased, or with an unexpected tone. He puzzles over it for another minute before deciding that " _what else_ _I can do to help_ " implies something beyond her normal duties—solicitous or friendly, like something his mother or a cousin would say.

Setting the PADD aside, he pulls up a set of tests and spends the next 35 minutes grading them. Then he picks up the PADD and reads it again, convinced that he's missed something elemental in the meaning. Perhaps she is asking for additional duties or is bored with her routine?

He circles around again to the incongruous phrasing. "What else I can do" is straightforward enough, but "to help" implies a personal calculus that throws him.

_Let me know what else I can do to help._

Not _tell me more work to do_ but _let me help you._ Except that he has expressed no need for additional help—or for any help at all.

Unless—and his ears grow warm with the idea—she means that on that day in the office when their minds had brushed together, she felt what he thought was deepest and most hidden—his quiet desperation, his complete and utter inability to dismiss or explain away his _feelings_ for her. If she is offering to help him set those feelings aside as the inappropriate and inconvenient emotions they are—

But how would she do that? Tell him directly that she knows what he is, what he thinks about? Remind him of the hopelessness of pursuing anything other than a professional relationship with her? Had she gotten a sense of T'Pring in the brief incursion into his thoughts? That was before he flew to New York and found Stonn gloating in T'Pring's room, not bothering to hide their infidelity.

Does Nyota—Cadet Uhura—know that he's already surreptitiously, shamefully, consulted the Starfleet code of conduct governing fraternization? Not because he intends to act on his _feelings_ , but because his eidetic memory inexplicably failed him when he tried to recall the exact rules?

Not knowing what she knows is intolerable. Briefly he closes his eyes and tips his head up, searching for some equanimity. Useless—as useless as his hours of sitting cross-legged in front of his _asenoi_ , as useless as the extra _suus mahna_ sessions. Opening his eyes, he picks up the PADD once more.

Somewhere there's a key to what she means.

Almost of their own accord, his fingers drift over the screen. Several seconds later, a reverse chronology of the cadet's note and all its editions queue up. Tapping past the most recent one, Spock reads the one immediately before it.

_I met with the two students who needed an additional tutorial on Triskalien fricatives and set up another lesson. Hopefully it will be as useful as the last one. The post office was closed when I went during my lunch break but I mailed your packages after work. Since there was no hurry for their delivery, I assumed that would be okay. You received no personal notices to forward to your comm queue—at least not while I was here. Sorry I missed you. Let me know if there is anything I can do to help._

In his side his heart beats so hard that he presses the fingers of his right hand against it. Every point of her note is an answer to the detailed one he wrote—and deleted. Somehow she's managed to read it anyway.

If she read that earlier draft, then she might have read the ones before it—

Struggling to keep his hand from shaking, he tabs open an even earlier draft of her note.

_Commander Spock, If I've done something that is keeping you away from the office, please let me know._

That she blames herself for his absence is inexcusable. He presses his fingers again to his side, willing his heartbeat to slow down. Somehow he has to restore a measure of normalcy to his work schedule. Obviously his current actions are causing Cadet Uhura distress. How to proceed, however, is unclear.

The PADD in his hand shows one more time-stamp earlier than all the others. Spock tabs it open.

_Can we talk?_

Is it talking if they read each other's erasures? If they sort through what didn't get said to find the truth?

And what if that truth must always remain hidden?

He can never confess to her what he barely admits to himself—that as distracting as her presence is, her absence causes him very real pain.

In the meantime he is the one causing pain, his schedule distressing her in a way he never intended. Tomorrow he'll resume working the day shift when she's there, coming up with an explanation for his temporary disappearance. A lie of necessity—or better yet, the kind of vague dodge that Vulcans use for misdirection.

"Something unexpected required my attention," he will say, not untruthfully, his tone suggesting the discussion is closed. "I was remiss in not speaking to you about it sooner."

**A/N: Yikes! Fitting this story into an already existing canon is more difficult than I anticipated! I don't want to retell what I've already written, but those touchstones are important in understanding what these characters are feeling and doing. In this chapter, for instance, I allude to several events rather quickly—Spock's Brodhead Prize, the memorial for the** _**USS Camden** _ **, and Spock's discovery that T'Pring and Stonn are together. Each of those events is described at length in "What We Think We Know," and believe it or not, "Subtext" will move beyond that period. Thanks for being so patient and supportive!**


	7. Ghostwriters

**Chapter Seven: Ghostwriters**

**Disclaimer: No money made!**

Leonard McCoy leans across the table and taps Nyota on the wrist. "Go home," he says, the half-empty glass of bourbon at his elbow making his Georgia drawl even slower and more honeyed than usual. "Go home before you lose another hand. You're off your game tonight, missy."

From anyone else this would be an insult. From McCoy it is a simple statement of truth. The stakes at the weekly Academy poker nights—surreptitious and unsanctioned but widely known—aren't large. With a glance at her chips Nyota sees that she's lost fewer than 20 credits. Not much, but more than she's used to losing. Her mind is elsewhere.

Still, she hates to void the field so early. Poker night is Gaila's night _in_ —to entertain guests, usually, or so Nyota assumes. She makes a point of being out of the dorm for several hours every Thursday night.

"I'm okay," Nyota says, meeting McCoy's gaze. After a beat he shrugs and reshuffles the cards.

"Suit yourself," he says. With a flick of his wrist, he sends cards sliding around the table. Four players including her; a small crowd, though not a surprise. Exams began last week and cadets who haven't finished and left for home are hunkered down in the library studying.

That's where she should be—not here watching her small cache of credits dribbling away because she can't focus.

No, not _can't_ focus. She can focus just fine. Just not on poker.

Her attention keeps drifting back to the language department holiday party two days ago—and the book of Vulcan poetry Commander Spock gave her. Not just Vulcan poetry but erotic poetry so highly charged and sensual that Nyota is still unsure how to respond. More times than she can count she's pulled out her PADD to craft some clever thank you—only to stammer and flutter to a draw.

Small, compact, with a cover of lavender slubbed silk, the book would have been a delight no matter what the contents, a thing of beauty and artistry in its own right.

But the words inside: Startling in their naked emotion—unabashed, frank, passionate.

_I am drawn to you against my will. I ravish you in my dreams._

With those lines everything she thought she knew about Vulcans was turned upside down. Everything she thought she knew about the Commander….

Is the book a hidden message? Or a subliminal one? A reflection of what she glimpsed in the Commander's mind the day she slipped in the office and he caught her in his arms, their thoughts joining briefly before she pulled herself upright, unsure if the longing she sensed was his or her own?

And if it is, what should she do? Ignore it? Pretend ignorance?

Or if there's no subtext at all to his gift? If the poetry is merely an example of pre-Surakian literature, interesting as an artifact of an ancient time and nothing more? What should she say then? That she appreciates the education, the expansion of her vocabulary?

She grins, remembering the Vulcan dictionary she was forced to download just to be able to read the more explicit poems.

"What's so funny?" McCoy says, scooping his cards into his hand and fanning them out. Nyota follows suit, making an idle note that she has a pair of jacks and nothing else worth saving.

"Three," she says, still grinning, determined to dodge the question. McCoy frowns and counts out her cards.

She loses that hand in short order, and the next two. Just as she's decided to call it a night after all, the other two players bow out and she and McCoy are left at the table eyeing each other.

"So," the doctor says, tipping his glass up, "you gonna tell me what's going on?"

"Nothing," Nyota parries.

"Sweetheart," McCoy says, "don't lie to me. I'm your friend, remember? If you can't tell me the truth, at least don't give me a lie."

What a temptation it is to tell him everything—her confusion about her feelings for the Commander, her greater confusion about his feelings for her. Leonard McCoy's been a friend almost as long as she's been at the Academy, and he's bent her ear on multiple occasions about his own grief—a marriage gone sour, a daughter he doesn't see often enough. His personal sorrows have made him a sympathetic listener. Nyota imagines that his patients are rarely fooled by his gruff demeanor.

"It's just that—" she begins. McCoy folds his arms and settles back in his chair to hear her out. Nyota sifts through what to tell him—and how much.

"It's just that I need to write a thank you note to someone, and I'm not sure what to say."

For a moment McCoy is so still that she wonders if he heard her. Then he snorts and reaches for his glass.

"You're joking, right? A thank you note? Here I was ready to dispense all my wisdom, too. Heartbreak, failing grades, personal tragedy—I was ready. But if it's etiquette you need help with, you're asking the wrong guy."

He starts to rise and Nyota says, "Well, it's complicated. It's for a gift that's…personal, not the kind you'd give just anyone."

At that McCoy slumps back into his chair.

"What does that mean? And it better not mean what I think it means."

Nyota darts a glance at McCoy—and is startled to see such a fatherly look of concern that she hesitates.

"It's nothing to worry about," she says, still watching McCoy. His face relaxes a fraction and she continues. "Someone gave me a book of poetry—"

At that McCoy's expression changes again, this time complete with eye rolling.

"Poetry!" he says, picking up his glass and finishing off the bourbon. "Here's my advice. Don't send a thank you note at all. Discourage that kind of thing. Nip it in the bud. Poetry, indeed!"

"You aren't a fan."

"Of poetry? Why can't people just say what they mean! Poetry's just another chance to say something wrong and be misunderstood. There's enough of that kind of miscommunication in the world without adding to it with poetry!"

Nyota puts her palms flat on the table, disappointed that McCoy is so dismissive and unhelpful. Her face must give her away, for he reaches across the table and taps her wrist as he had earlier.

"But then," McCoy says, "you haven't told me everything. Have you?"

Squirming, Nyota shrugs.

"It's…it's love poetry."

McCoy's eyebrows shoot up. "You have an admirer. So what? You don't return the feeling?"

"I don't know," Nyota hears herself blurt out. "I mean, I do, but I'm not sure—"

"You're not sure this relationship is right? That it will work?"

Rather than answering, Nyota shrugs again. McCoy snorts loudly.

"Take it from me, kid, the odds are it isn't going to work out. So my advice is, don't expect it to and you won't get hurt."

"But I can't say nothing—"

"Then lie and say the poems are _beautiful._ That's still a word, right? Covers a lot of ground, clean and simple. Say you're touched _._ Or grateful. Or maybe just flattered. Then say a big ole _no_. You don't have time for this, heading into your senior year. What will a romance do except distract you and pull down your grades? Hell, it's already wrecking your poker game. Isn't that enough of a warning?"

"Thank you but _no_?"

"Thank you but an _emphatic_ no. That's my advice, for what it's worth."

"It's just that—"

"What?"

"Well, I don't know that he's actually _asking_ me for anything—"

"You said it was love poetry," McCoy says, lifting his glass again and peering inside. "Nobody gives love poetry without some agenda behind it."

" _He_ might," she blurts out. "I mean, he's a language professor, and the poetry is a good example of—"

At once she realizes her mistake. McCoy's relaxed, friendly booziness evaporates. He sits up unnaturally straight and crosses his arms like an interrogator.

"Your _professor_ gave you love poetry?"

"Not a professor I have now, but one I know."

"An Academy professor?"

"Of course," she says, beginning to feel irritated. "But not one I'm taking a course from now."

"But a professor. Here."

Squelching her annoyance, Nyota nods. "You see why it's…complicated."

"Turn him in," McCoy says. "What he's done is inappropriate. At the very least, it's making you uncomfortable. He deserves to be censured for that. If you won't report him, I will."

With a wave of alarm, Nyota says, "It's not like that, really. He's probably not even aware of the…meaning…or symbolism….of the poetry. He comes from a different culture that doesn't recognize those kinds of relationships. I'm sure when I explain it to him, he'll be mortified."

McCoy is clearly skeptical, his mouth turned down, his eyes narrowed.

"So what are you asking me, then?"

Nyota takes a deep breath. "He gave it to me two days ago and I need to acknowledge it. It was a gift, after all. I can't pretend it didn't happen."

"How about _thanks for nothing_ ," McCoy says tartly. " _Thanks for complicating your life. Thanks for putting you in an awkward position._ "

"I can see you aren't going to be any help." She pushes back her chair and starts to rise.

"I'm serious," McCoy says, getting to his feet. "If you feel compelled to write something, tell him what a pain in the ass he is."

"Right now you're the bigger pain," she says, stepping around the end of the table and pecking McCoy on the cheek. "Lesson learned. Don't ask a grump for advice."

She walks to the door of the smoky basement dorm room and leaves before McCoy can say anything else. On one hand, he's right. Commander Spock's gift has complicated her life. She's seen him only once since he gave it to her—this morning at his office, Professor Artura making sly innuendos over tea in the breakroom, the Commander leaving abruptly soon afterwards and not answering his comm since, almost as if he's dropped off the planet.

All the more reason to reassure him that she's not reading too much into the poetry, that she understands his intent in giving it.

…except that she doesn't. She almost stumbles over the short steps at the entrance of her dorm. _Focus, Nyota_.

To her relief, the room is empty, Gaila nowhere in sight. Pulling her PADD into her lap, she tucks her legs under her and leans against the headboard of her bed.

_Thank you for the book of poetry. I'm very touched._

Isn't that what McCoy suggested? A safe grandmotherly word like _touched_? Or was it grateful? A word implying some sort of transaction. Or flattered? Even more provocative, with a hint of an implied future transaction.

She deletes the last sentence. Better to leave her emotions out of the equation altogether and instead make the note about the book itself.

_Thank you for the book of poetry. It is—_

Surprising. Interesting. Instructive. Suggestive. Intimate.

She says each adjective out loud in turn, feeling the syllables in her mouth like uncomfortable pebbles.

_Thank you for the book of poetry. I hope to talk to you soon about it. It is beautiful._

There. As McCoy said, a word that covers a lot of ground, clean and simple. A functional thank you, sufficiently vague if Spock meant nothing untoward, sufficiently on guard in case he did.

Before she can rethink her decision, she presses her thumb to the PADD and sends the message on its way. Now to wait for a reply, if there is one.

X X X

Spock's PADD chimes softly, an indication of an incoming message. Glancing around at the other passengers on the shuttle, he notes their relative inattention and glances at the name of the sender. _Cadet Uhura_. Before he can change his mind, he tabs the screen closed and leans back into the shuttle seat, closing his eyes briefly.

It isn't characteristic for him to avoid a necessary action this way, yet here he is, not reading her note, not composing a reply. He also owes her a thank you for what was obviously a carefully chosen gift she gave him at the language department holiday party—a handcrafted mug by the same potter who threw his _asenoi_. The day he purchased his firepot, Cadet Uhura had been with him, his invitation that she join him as he shopped just the kind of impulsive behavior he has always prided himself on avoiding.

"You can't control everything," his mother often told him. "Not even yourself." And here he is proving her right.

He opens his eyes and considers reading the mail. _Dread_ isn't a word he often associates with himself, but he dreads reading it. It will not be pleasant.

The odds are that she is taking him to task for something—for leaving for Vulcan unannounced, for not answering the door when she stopped by his apartment last night. For slipping up in word and deed and letting her know—and admitting to himself at last—that his emotions are governing his behavior in a way that is shameful.

Worst of all is the book, of course. Weeks ago he'd asked his mother to find it in his room at home and send it to him—ancient Vulcan poetry that until lately has been more baffling than anything else. He'd bought it years ago and has puzzled over it ever since, the explicit sexuality not nearly as discomfiting as the unabashed emotions, each line giving words to the kind of longing and possession and despair Spock had never experienced firsthand.

Until now.

He'd hoped that the book would be a salve—or at least a rudder—but if anything reading it again has made him feel more at sea, hopeless and lost. When he'd taken to carrying it with him everywhere he was dimly alarmed. When Cadet Uhura saw it in his pocket and assumed it was for her, he was horrified.

Even now he flushes as he remembers handing it over to her when she demanded it, his misdirection about the contents tumbling out of his mouth before he could think straight.

"Pre-Enlightenment poetry," he told her, careful not to meet her gaze. "You might find it…interesting."

"You Vulcans think everything is _interesting_ ," his mother often teased when he, in her estimation, overused the word. "On Earth, _may you live in interesting times_ is a curse."

Again his mother proves prescient. Spock powers his PADD on and opens a screen to compose a message to Cadet Uhura.

Somehow he has to explain away the gift of the book. The authors, T'Quir and Kohlar, lived so long ago that little is known about them other than what they reveal in their poetry. Lovers, mates, companions—their book is a compilation of paired poems to each other. When he reads them, Spock feels like an unwanted intruder.

That Cadet Uhura is now reading those same poems is almost unbearable.

_About the book of poetry, much of the language is obsolete. Rather than attempt a modern translation, your time would be better spent reading more current authors. I can recommend some to you when I return in several days._

There. He can't be any clearer. The book should not be read. The language is…inappropriate.

On the other hand, Cadet Uhura has proven unusually tenacious in the past where language is concerned. No other student, for example, has even attempted to learn Trill, much less master the formal _and_ the familiar dialects. Telling her that the book is too obsolete for a translation might, in fact, encourage her to attempt it.

His heart hammers in his side. With the swipe of his finger, he erases the message. Perhaps the best thing to do is say nothing—and hope that she's busy with exams and final projects and has not looked at the book at all. When he sees her again in person he can suggest she set it aside—or return it to him in exchange for something more contemporary and less…descriptive.

That still leaves the matter of the thank you note for the mug. Everything about the mug is aesthetically pleasing—from the imperfect shape to the potter's fingermarks visible through the glaze. Cadet Uhura could not have chosen one closer in design to his _asenoi._ When she placed it in his palm after the party, her face bright with anticipation, he struggled not let his hand shake.

He should have written a thank you that evening, before he had time to consider any possible subtext to her gift, before he decided to flee to Vulcan for a few days to sort out his disturbing lack of focus and accidental slips of the tongue.

His mother would not be pleased. Long ago he'd learned not to question her insistence that he show appreciation or gratitude, at least with his human family.

"Your grandmother went to a great deal of trouble to send this to you," his mother told him the year he turned eight. "You need to write her to thank her."

Spock stood in the middle of the family room, the opened birthday package spread out on the sofa beside him. He held up the bulky knit sweater with sleeves too short and a neck too narrow to be comfortable.

"We should send it back," Spock said. "She may wish to give it to someone else."

His mother pursed her lips and sighed.

"That would hurt her feelings," she said. "She picked it out for you."

"But I do not want it," Spock said, "and her feelings do not concern me."

Compared to his father, his mother's emotional state was easy to discern. Right then her displeasure was apparent—but to his surprise, her anger was directed at him rather than at his grandmother who had failed to do sufficient research into his current size and clothing needs.

"Other people's feelings _better_ concern you!" she said as she rounded on him. Taking the sweater from his hands, she added, "And whether or not you _want_ what someone gives you isn't the reason you thank them! You thank them for _thinking_ of you!"

"But Grandmother's thoughts about me were incorrect," Spock said. "She is unaware that my current height is—"

"Spock! Are you deliberately misunderstanding me?"

His mother's face was pinched and flushed. Through their shared bond he could tell that her question was not rhetorical, that she thought he might be doing what she called _stonewalling_. This time, however, he was not. His confusion was sincere.

With a rush, his mother dropped the sweater to the sofa, took several steps to the side table, picked up a PADD, and returned, placing it in his hands. He looked down at it and back up, baffled.

"Write," his mother said. "You tell your Grandmother that you appreciate her gift. You tell her that you know she went to a lot of trouble to send it and you are grateful. Even if you don't mean it, you tell her that, Spock. And you make it sound like you mean it!"

With that she stormed away. He listened as her footsteps banged a retreat down the hall and the front door opened and shut with a shudder.

The noise brought his father from his study.

"Explain," Sarek said simply, and Spock struggled to keep his voice steady.

"Mother went outside," he said, looking down at the PADD on his lap. "She is…unhappy with me."

He expected his father to retreat into his study and shut the door as he usually did, leaving Spock and his mother to sort out their differences. This time, however, Sarek sat down beside him on the sofa. For a moment, neither said a word, and then Spock let his words tumble out in a heap—reporting his mother's scolding and his bewilderment about what to do next.

"Your mother," Sarek said, "wants you to know how to participate fully in human social interactions."

"She is asking me to lie," Spock replied. His father's expression didn't change but Spock could sense some subterranean emotion—amusement or surprise, or something equally mild.

"When humans give gifts to each other, the expected response is to offer words of gratitude," Sarek said. Before Spock could interrupt, he added, "What matters most is that you recognize the effort of the giver, regardless of the gift."

"But Grandmother did not make sufficient effort," Spock said. "If she had, the sweater would fit."

"She made the kind of effort she could make," Sarek replied. "Your Grandmother sees you rarely and her judgment of your expected growth was faulty, but that does not mean you do not owe her a thank you."

"I am not thankful."

Sarek's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Not for the gift, perhaps, but you should endeavor to be thankful for your Grandmother's good wishes. Not everyone has them."

It was a veiled allusion to Sarek himself, to the difficult relationship he had with Amanda's mother. Not that Grandmother Grayson had ever said anything disparaging about him in Spock's hearing, but their infrequent visits to her home in Seattle were fraught with the tension of what _didn't_ get said.

The sofa rocked gently as his father rose, his footsteps tracing the same path down the hall and out the front door as his mother. Taking a deep breath, Spock opened the PADD and wrote _Dear Grandmother, Thank you for the sweater. I appreciate the effort you made in sending it to me._

The note was, he knew, incomplete. His mother would insist that he comment on the gift itself. Curving his fingers around the stylus, he typed _the sweater is well crafted._ He didn't know that for certain, but he assumed his Grandmother would not send him something of inferior quality.

Still, the sentence bothered him as unnecessary—a statement of the obvious. Striking it out, he wrote _the sweater is acceptable._ High praise if his Grandmother were Vulcan, but Spock recalled his mother's sour look the last time he told her a meal she had labored over was acceptable.

"I should hope so!" she snapped, and Spock had darted a glance across the table to his father who carefully avoided meeting his gaze.

With a click, he deleted _acceptable_.

The sweater was an interesting shade of blue; it was warm when he slid his hand into the too-short sleeve; it was agreeably soft to his touch. Spock ran his fingers over the sweater on the sofa and searched for a word to describe it.

_The sweater is aesthetically agreeable_ , he wrote.

"Not bad," his mother said when she came in from watering her rose bushes, her mood considerably brighter. "But let's change 'aesthetically agreeable' to something less…distant or formal. I know, I know—it's what you mean. But try to speak to your Grandmother in her language, not yours."

It was frustrating, this onus on the writer to prevent miscommunication. Spock took the PADD and sat in his room until the evening meal. When his father called him to come eat, he set the PADD on the table at his mother's place and watched as she read his final draft.

_Dear Grandmother, Thank you for the sweater. I appreciate the effort you made in sending it to me. It is beautiful._

An afternoon wasted and all he could think of was _beautiful_ , a word so anemic and paltry that it was almost meaningless. Every human he knew used the word for such a diverse array of objects and actions that Spock had long ago stopped accepting it as a valid assessment of anything.

His mother's roses were _beautiful,_ the sunset was _beautiful_ , the graceful sprint of an accomplished athlete was _beautiful_ , and so on.

Yet for all that, the word seemed to resonate, too, like the time his cousin Anna told him that his speed and prowess with math was beautiful. Or his _ka'athyra_ teacher used the word to describe an original composition he played for her.

Or all the times he overheard his father murmur it in his mother's ear, her smile lighting up her face, her face lifting like a sunflower.

His mother set the PADD back on the table and nodded, her eyes glistening.

"Grandmother will like this, Spock," she said. "She'll like this very much."

A distant bell brings him to the present—an announcement that the artificial gravity has been turned on and passengers on the shuttle flight to Vulcan are free to move around. Blinking, Spock looks at the empty page of his PADD waiting for his thank you note.

_Thank you for the mug. I appreciate the effort you made in purchasing it for me._

It's true. He is thankful, not just for the mug itself but for Cadet Uhura's care in matching it to his _asenoi_.

_It is aesthetically pleasing_ , he adds. Cadet Uhura—Nyota—will understand that his words are not as distant, as formal, as they might sound. Unparalleled among the humans he knows, she won't mistake what he writes and what he means.

Or so he hopes.

On further reflection, this is not quite what he means. Angling the PADD to see the screen without a glare, he frowns slightly and taps out a correction.

_Thank you for the mug. I appreciate the effort you made in purchasing it for me. It is beautiful._

With another tap he sends the note on its way and takes a deep breath before opening the mail from her.

**A/N: For everyone waiting on this tardy update, my sincere apologies. RL has thrown a few curve balls lately, but writing and hearing from readers is such a joy that I'm trying to move forward. Thanks for your support!**

**Sarek gives little Spock a lesson on gift giving in Chapter 14 of "What We Think We Know." That's also the chapter where Nyota and Spock exchange the problematic gifts of book and mug.**

 


	8. Shaken

**Chapter 8: Shaken**

**Disclaimer: No money made here!**

Nyota wakes up as she tumbles from her bed, landing hard on her elbow. She yelps in pain and looks around.

The room is dark but she can hear Gaila breathing hard on the floor, also apparently tossed from her bed. "Are you okay?" Nyota calls out. Gingerly she bends one knee, then another, and pushes herself upright. A shadowy figure on the other side of the room rises and wavers uncertainly—Gaila, making her way towards her.

"Lights!" Nyota says, but the room remains dark, the only visible light the tiny blue connection node on her comm on the bedside table.

"What happened? Was that an earthquake?" Gaila says, her voice muffled with shock or the remnants of sleep. Stumbling forward, she trips and lets out a colorful Orion curse.

"Watch out!" Nyota cautions. With one hand trailing the edge of her bed, she makes her way to the bedside table, grabs her comm, and flicks on the flashlight function. In two steps Gaila is beside her.

In the distance a siren sounds. Then another joins it, this one moving steadily closer.

An earthquake alright. During her first year at the Academy, Nyota experienced two quakes a month apart, neither one serious or causing much damage, both preceded by an odd rumbling noise that even now she can recall in perfect clarity. Of course she knew that San Francisco straddled a fault line. That accounted for some of the peculiarities of architecture—unusual braces incorporated into the design of larger buildings, flexible footings as foundations of smaller structures.

Still, knowing the earth could slip under your feet at any time was different from actually experiencing it.

She turns the flashlight to Gaila and examines her roommate's face. No bruises or cuts—just a startled expression that probably mirrors her own.

"What are you doing?" Gaila protests, shading her eyes with her hand. With a click, Nyota turns off the light and the room is dark again.

"The power lines must be cut," she says. At her side, Gaila snorts and says, "You think?"

Someone bangs on their door and Nyota stumbles her way to it. With a tug, she pulls it open and sees that the emergency floor strips are on in the hall, a uniformed security officer standing in the doorway.

"Everybody okay in here?" he says.

She nods and walks out into the hall, listening to the students chattering. Suddenly the overhead lights flicker on—dimmer than usual, so they must be running on an auxiliary generator—and the students in the hall cheer.

No use trying to go back to sleep. With a glance at her comm, Nyota sees that it's 0443. The sun will be up soon. She might as well get dressed and check out the rest of the campus.

A quick walk to the cafeteria shows a line of other sleepy cadets with the same idea. Someone has put a sign on the door saying "No hot breakfast," but Nyota doesn't care. Yogurt and fruit and some kind of sliced flatbread are already laid out. Grabbing a container of yogurt, she ponders whether to stay and eat or to take it with her.

"Sally!" a voice calls out behind her. "Here's a seat!"

Jim Kirk—looking as scruffy as she feels. With a frown, she shakes her head and exits. She has no idea what Gaila sees in him.

Well, that isn't completely true. He's incredibly annoying, his joke of giving her a different name every time he sees her not the least bit funny. And although she's told him more than once that she's not interested in helping him with his _Kobayashi_ _Maru_ simulation, he continues to ask her to join his team.

But he _is_ smart—she admits reluctantly—and he has a sort of charm that pulls people to him naturally. And he's cute, with those unnaturally blue eyes.

Still, if Gaila didn't live by her own rules of engagement, without need or desire for advice or direction from Nyota, she'd bend her roommate's ear until she was forced to listen to her warnings about getting involved with such an immature heartbreaker.

Lost in her thoughts, Nyota walks east across the commons, the rising sun on the horizon, the language building looming into view. With a start she realizes that she can check on the lab—and if Commander Spock isn't inside, report any damage to him.

Except that her comm still seems to be down. Like the electricity, the communication relays must have been interrupted by the quake.

The front entrance to the language building is locked but Nyota keys in an override password and tugs open the door. Only one emergency light is on inside—which is not a surprise. As she ascends the shadowy stairwell to the third floor, she pauses on each landing and listens, but all she hears is silence.

When she gets to the top landing she knows immediately that the Commander is not there. His office is dark, the door shut. With a sigh, she walks down to the lab and opens it up.

The console closest to the outer wall has turned over, three computer stations scattered on the floor. In the dim light she can't tell if they are damaged or merely tumbled around.

Passing the break room, she peers in and sees nothing amiss. Likewise, Commander Spock's office looks to be intact. She's frankly surprised that the Commander isn't already here, making sure the lab is secure. For the third time that morning, she dials his number. Nothing.

Nyota makes her way carefully back out the building and goes to her dorm. By now the normal electricity has been restored and she gratefully takes a hot shower before sitting on her bed, redialing the Commander's comm. Nothing, though when she tries to call her friends to check on them, she gets through only half the time. Apparently some of the signal towers are still down.

The campus mail, however, is up, and Nyota checks her queue for some word from Commander Spock. Nothing there as well—so she sends him a note.

_I hope you weren't hurt in the quake. The lab has some damage, but your office looks okay. Let me know if I need to do anything._

As soon as she sends it a campus wide notice flashes in her box, alerting students that the classroom buildings are being checked for safety and are off-limits until midday. Nyota tabs open a media feed and scans it for news—and is surprised to see that parts of the city are still without power, that the transit lines are closed. A banner scrolls across the bottom of the screen with a tally of the injured—74.

As she reads, Nyota thumbs Commander Spock's number on her comm. On the fifth try she gets a connection tone and is able to place the call. With the comm pinioned between her ear and shoulder, she counts fifteen rings before she finally hangs up.

All morning she vacillates between checking the news and trying to contact Commander Spock. Gaila is in and out, in and out, personally checking on people in other dorms, and by lunchtime their mutual friends are accounted for—with only one sprained ankle and some overturned furniture the most serious damage.

At 1215 Gaila suggests lunch but Nyota tells her she'll catch up later after she checks on the lab.

"I thought you went by the lab earlier," Gaila says, but Nyota murmurs something indistinct about needing to go again. Gaila shoots her a sly look that Nyota pretends not to see.

This time the lights are on inside and as soon as she enters the building, she hears the telltale noise of people going about their business—shuffles and bumps and scrapes and chatter, and the comforting sound of machinery—the whir of air handlers and the hum of computers, the high-pitched whine of light bulbs that Nyota knows not many people hear or attend to.

She also knows—before she reaches the third-floor landing—that Commander Spock is not here. His office is as silent as a tomb, the lab dark and locked.

"That was quick!" Gaila grins as Nyota sets her lunch tray on the table and slides into a chair opposite. "Didn't see anything? Or any _one_?"

"Commander Spock wasn't there, if that's what you're asking."

"Maybe his apartment was one of the ones damaged," Gaila says, spearing a strawberry with a fork. "I saw something about the faculty housing on the news."

Well, of course that must be it. He's busy cleaning up toppled bookshelves or spilled cooler contents. She feels the crease between her brows disappear.

Through the rest of the meal she only half listens as Gaila prattles about a project she needs to finish for Professor McKnight as soon as the tech station opens back up and students are allowed to access the high-speed cybertronics lab.

"You know," Gaila says, leaning forward and waving her empty fork in the air, "you haven't heard a word I've said."

Nyota opens her mouth to deny it but Gaila hurries on.

"It's true," she says. "I can see in your eyes that you're a million kilometers away." With an impish grin, she adds, "Or maybe just on the other side of the campus. Like at the faculty housing?"

When Nyota looks up and frowns, Gaila says, "Why don't you call him? And don't tell me you don't know who I mean. Call the Commander and make sure he's okay. You know you want to. You're sitting here worried that he's gotten hurt."

With a sigh, Nyota says, "I already did. Call him, I mean. He doesn't answer."

"Then send him a note. The campus mail is up."

Nyota shrugs. "I already did that too. This morning. No word back."

She can see surprise cross Gaila's features.

"Oh! I'm sure he's okay. He's probably just busy," Gaila says, a note of false cheer in her voice.

They both know that's not likely—or at least Nyota assumes Gaila knows that. After all, Gaila works closely with the Commander designing the annual upgrade for the _Kobayashi Maru_ program. If anyone knows how particular and meticulous the Commander can be, Gaila does.

"Susan!"

Nyota groans at the sound of Jim Kirk's voice behind her. With a wave of her hand, Gaila motions to him and he starts to sit down.

"Here," Nyota says, picking up her tray and standing up. "You can have my seat."

"What? You leaving already? I just got here!"

"Exactly," she says, making sure to meet his gaze before walking away, ponytail swinging in what she hopes is obvious annoyance. She's actually not as annoyed as she pretends—Kirk's arrival gives her an excuse to leave without Gaila in tow. With one last look behind her, she sets her tray in the return line and hurries out into the weak afternoon sunlight.

A brisk 15-minute walk later, Nyota is at the entrance of the faculty housing where Commander Spock lives. The building looks fine, though the quake could have done some damage inside. With the heel of her hand, she presses hard on the outside intercom panel and leans in close.

"Commander," she says, "this is Cadet Uhura. I'm…concerned…because I haven't heard from you since the earthquake. Are you okay?"

She pulls back her hand and waits for a reply. Nothing. Pressing the button again, she says, "Commander Spock? Are you home?"

For several minutes she waits, worried that he's lying hurt under a heavy piece of toppled furniture, unable to call for help.

Then a young man wearing a jacket too heavy for the weather comes up the walkway and slides his ID across the entrance panel, releasing the lock. As he swings open the door, Nyota steps up.

"Excuse me," she says, "but I left my card inside my apartment. Thanks!"

And before he can protest or question her, she slips past him to the hallway. Pretending to lean down to adjust her boot, she waits as the young man passes her and goes on to another apartment down the hall. Straightening, she heads to Commander Spock's door, the first one on the left.

The pebbly-textured glass insert is dark, but that doesn't mean that the Commander isn't there. Pulling her hand into a fist, she raps on the door twice.

"Commander?"

She raps again and presses her ear to the door.

If he's here, he's either unwilling or unable to answer.

Pulling her comm from her pocket, she dials his number again.

"Commander?" she says louder at the door. "Commander Spock?"

As she slips her comm back into her pocket, she feels something slippery and folded and she pulls it out: a piece of old-fashioned wood fiber paper, covered with Vulcan Golic script. A week ago she'd asked the Commander the difference between the formal and familiar words for _clan_ and _family_ and he'd opened the little notepad he carried, a surprisingly anachronistic way of keeping records, and torn off a sheet of paper after jotting down the words.

She's had it in her pocket ever since, a talisman of sorts.

With her other and she rifles through her pocket and fishes out an ink stylus. Flipping over the paper, she presses it against the wall and writes.

_Please let me know that you are okay._

Ripping the paper in two, she folds the half containing her note and slides it into the mail slot. There. Wherever he is, when he gets back, he'll let her know and she can stop worrying.

In the meantime, she worries overtime. Walking back across the campus to her dorm, she tries to beat back images of an unconscious Commander Spock in a hospital bed, a gash in his head, his arm bent in an unnatural angle. _Ridiculous!_ she tells herself, but by the time she's in her room, she's called the two closest hospitals and asked if they've admitted any Vulcans in the aftermath of the quake.

That night she sleeps uneasily, tensing up whenever a hovercraft rumbles by. Once when she wakes with a start, Gaila snoring softly from across the room, Nyota checks her comm for messages.

The next day is spent dealing with unexpected power fluctuations. In the middle of her morning shower, the lights go off and the water starts to chill. In a few minutes everything seems normal—until two hours later when everything goes dark again.

Nyota spends the afternoon dialing her mother's home before she's finally able to reassure her that she's unhurt. By evening, her comm voice mail is partially restored and she listens to a dozen belated messages, impatiently pumping her knee while well-meaning friends and family express their concern.

Nothing from Commander Spock.

_Where are you? I can't find you!_

She lets her finger hover over the note she's tapped out on her PADD. Too personal. Too…frantic. She tweaks it.

_Where are you? No one can find you._

She reads her edited version, the personal equation muted, the missing exclamation point less frantic—and less honest.

"Maybe he's out of town. Lots of people left for the holiday break," Gaila says the next morning when Nyota checks her voice mail for the umpteenth time during breakfast. That she's so transparent—that despite not mentioning Commander Spock by name Gaila knows what she's up to—rattles her slightly.

"Maybe," she says, dipping her spoon into her oatmeal and taking an indifferent bite. For some reason she's had little appetite since the quake, as if she's been shaken in more ways than one.

Which, of course, she has been.

She's sitting propped in the dorm basement waiting on her laundry to dry when the rest of her delayed comm messages come through and she sees Commander Spock's number at last.

And not just once, but repeatedly. Scrolling down, she counts 17 missed phone calls. The relay tag shows the calls were routed from Vulcan. Gaila was right. He's gone off-planet for the break. Nyota's so relieved she laughs out loud.

"Finally!" she says, searching the voice mails. Surely when he couldn't reach her comm he left a message.

But no. Not a single voice mail from him. In the list she recognizes the prefix code from the survey ship her father's currently serving on; another is from a friend in New York, so the voice mail is working. If Commander Spock wanted to leave a message, he could have. Instead, he dialed her number 17 times and hung up.

Nor has he sent a note to her email. Not one word.

Despite her relief, she's stung that he hasn't bothered to go a step further to communicate. Feeling her face flush, she suddenly understands why. More than once recently they've gotten crossways over messages gone awry. He's undoubtedly skittish about the written word, preferring to talk to her directly to avoid confusion.

The written word is more permanent, more serious, more intimate, etched like a name on a stone monument—with an implied commitment and intensity that he doesn't intend.

And never will. No matter what she wants to believe.

X X X X

The traffic over San Francisco airspace is stacked so long that by the time his shuttle lands, Spock knows it is too late to contact Cadet Uhura to let her know he is safely home. Doing so would be redundant anyway. She has his travel plans—he made sure to call her earlier with his scheduled arrival time.

The first time they'd spoken after being out of contact for four days he was still at his parents' home on Vulcan, but even over the subspace he could tell that she was furious…and paradoxically joyful. He'd asked his mother about that contradictory emotional response and she'd just laughed and squeezed his arm, something she did whenever she thought he wouldn't object.

"I was worried sick!" Nyota said during that call. "The worst part was not knowing where you were, or if you were hurt. You should have told me that you were going to Vulcan! Then I wouldn't have worried!"

And then her voice softened and she added, "Please don't do that again. I need to know…if you are safe."

He'd called her a second time on the shuttle ride back to Earth, this time to suggest they share a meal together soon. It was an impulsive request, unlike him in every way. Even now as he disembarks the shuttle and queues up for the bus ride to his apartment, he has a vague, uneasy sense that he's not thinking clearly, that since before his trip to Vulcan his thoughts have been cloudy and unfocused.

Or too focused on Cadet Uhura.

At least he no longer has the distraction of T'Pring. If nothing else, the trip home has tied up that loose end. The annulment was swift—the healer's fingers pressed to Spock's temple and T'Pring's cheek, her words severing the bond like a quiet bell tolling across a vast distance. When it was over he'd felt nothing—not sorrow or regret or even pleasure, and that lack of emotion was, in itself, a relief.

Once he's back at his apartment, Spock slings his duffel over his shoulder and keys in the entry password. Several of his neighbors are in the hall when he pushes open the door but no one speaks to him—not a surprise, since he doesn't know them personally. Without conscious effort he contrasts that to the times he's walked with Cadet Uhura on campus, dozens of students hailing her by name, their hands lifted in greeting when she passes, their faces showing not only recognition but pleasure in her company.

As soon as he opens his door he sees the piece of paper in the mail slot—and a moment after that he recognizes it as his own, written eight days ago during a discussion about Vulcan synonyms.

"I can't figure out the difference between _clan_ and _family_ in this passage," Cadet Uhura had told him, holding up her PADD with a page from her xenobiology textbook. "The author says that the Vulcan words are almost identical—with the operative word _almost_."

She looked at him and he realized he had not been listening as attentively as he needed to—that he had, in fact, been looking closely at a spring of Cadet Uhura's hair on the nape of her neck. Blinking, he met her gaze and said, "As you surmise, the connotations are different."

"Clans are larger," Cadet Uhura said. "Your extended family and your immediate family."

"Not entirely true." Spock warmed to the task of explaining the difference. "A clan is a biological designation—and yes, it does usually include what humans would consider both close and distant blood relatives. The Vulcan word for _family_ , by contrast, is a legal definition that includes those we choose to associate with."

"So someone can be family without being a member of your clan?"

"Precisely," Spock said. "Marriage partners, for example, retain allegiance to their biological clans but are members of each other's family. That connection is expressed this way—"

He'd taken out a pocketsize notebook he carried, something he's done since he was a boy, his first one a gift from his cousin Chris when they'd drawn pictures of the beetles they caught in the backyard in Seattle. With his stylus he'd written out the words for _clan_ and _family_ —exaggerating the downward stroke to illustrate the difference.

"See," he said, tipping the page so Cadet Uhura could examine it closely. She leaned forward, her breath warm on his hand.

"I can't tell—" she began, and with a tug, he pulled the paper from the sheaf and handed it to her.

An innocent enough moment—except that he let his fingertip touch her palm, something he never would have done if he were thinking clearly. To his horror a connection flared briefly—her mind like a kaleidoscope of colors and noise—and he jerked away, careful not to meet her startled glance.

Now he turns over the paper and sees that she's written a message there.

_Please let me know that you are okay._

Nothing of the frantic worry he'd heard in her voice mails. Not even the barely contained anger he'd sensed when he'd finally spoken to her by comm. Deciphering human tone of voice and intonation has always been a challenge. More than once he and his father have found themselves accidental allies when his mother's words baffled them both. Perhaps Spock misinterpreted Cadet Uhura's meaning after all, assigning more emotion than was there?

The coolness of the note in his hand makes him pause. And the earlier note she'd sent? The first one after the quake?

_I hope you weren't hurt in the quake. The lab has some damage, but your office looks okay. Let me know if I need to do anything._

Nothing except a warranted request for information. A logical one at that, what a teaching assistant would need to know to organize her work schedule.

_Please let me know that you are okay._

He holds the torn piece of paper in his palm, the words bare and clear.

The spoken word is ephemeral, apt to be misunderstood. This—this simple piece of paper—speaks a truer message. He feels a pang in his side, as if the discovery that Cadet Uhura's meaning hides no subtext is a disappointment somehow.

That he'd suggested cooking a meal for her feels like the height of folly now. His face flushes at the thought that he's probably confused her—that their interactions in the future will be awkward.

Tomorrow he'll make it right, will make clear when he sees her in the office that any overtones of something more than friendship were uncalled for, the mistakes of communicating by the spoken word. If he can convince her that everything is the same as before—that their relationship is professional and measured—then all will be well.

How fortunate that he found the note and read its contents before seeing her in person. This way he won't repeat his error of being overly familiar.

And with that thought, he tucks the note into his pocket, turns up the heat in the apartment, makes a cup of tea and settles crosslegged in front of his _asenoi_ , willing his mind to empty, his hand betraying him as his fingers slip into his pocket, the feel of the paper a silent rebuke about things that can never be.

**A/N: Thank you, patient readers! I'm afraid some are dropping away because of tardy updates. Hopefully the pace will improve soon!**

**Spock's quick trip to Vulcan and his annulment from T'Pring are detailed from his POV in "Slips of the Tongue." I realized as I was organizing this chapter that I had never told the earthquake story from Nyota's POV—which is why she has more to say this time.**

**As always, thank you for taking the time to read…and double thanks for taking the time to leave a review.**


	9. United

**Chapter Nine: United**

**Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, but I admit responsibility for giving them mischief.**

Nyota wakes with a start—her heart pounding in her ears. With a gasp she sits up and looks around. Across the room she sees a mound of covers and pillows—Gaila still asleep. Not another earthquake, then, but Nyota's own internal fault line shaking her awake in the middle of the night.

And not the first time, either. In the past month she's woken up several times this way, panicked about what she's doing. About what Spock is doing.

So much has happened this month that she can hardly get her head around everything—so no wonder her brain won't let her rest. It seems like only yesterday Spock returned from Vulcan, apologetic for not forewarning her about his absence—or as apologetic as she assumes a Vulcan can be. She'd shown up at work the next morning expecting to tease him about going AWOL. Instead she was met by someone from the Dean's office telling her that Spock had been in a serious hoverbus crash.

For two days Spock lay in limbo in the hospital, too hurt to respond or heal until his cousin Chris showed Nyota how to reach him through a light meld.

Even now she gives an involuntary shiver at the memory. What she thought she knew about the Commander fell away like some silly sandcastle overwhelmed by the sea. How did she not know that his mother was human, that he had spent summers in Seattle with his cousins?

Why hadn't she recognized the significance of the light tingle that leapt from his skin to hers when they accidentally touched? Or her conviction during those moments that the lines between them blurred, that for an instant she saw the world through his eyes and entertained him in her mind?

She leans against the headboard and mulls over the bigger reason that she wakes with her heart pounding—memories of the night they were caught in a sudden downpour near his apartment, Spock circling her wrist and leading her inside—and into his bed, or she had led him.

"We could be censured," he said, but she had pressed closer as the syllables leaped from her. "I want this."

And that was that.

Becoming lovers changed everything.

Becoming lovers means being paradoxically more honest and less so—acknowledging to each other the feelings they had for so long denied, even as in public they are more circumspect, the quintessential professor and his aide, never touching, hardly speaking when anyone is in earshot.

Yet in some ways, nothing is different. Underneath the pretense they have not fundamentally changed, not really. The world, instead, has shifted around them, a metaphorical dizziness that is as real as it is dangerous. If they are caught, their relationship could end their careers in Starfleet.

"Technically," Spock told her when he spelled out the regulations on fraternization, "we are not violating the rules, as you do not stand to benefit in any way."

A serious moment, but she had deliberately lightened the mood by slyly grinning and sidling up for a kiss.

"I disagree with that assessment," she said. "I do benefit—greatly."

It was the kind of verbal playfulness that made her laugh, unlike the baffling miscommunication that caught her off guard and made her question her ability to understand him at times. Like what had happened earlier this week, when she'd shown up at Spock's apartment late one night and he'd opened the door in his heavy meditation robes, his eyes hooded, and she knew in an instant that he wasn't expecting her.

"Oh!" she said, embarrassed. "When I said I'd see you later—"

"You were indicating that you planned to come by. Now I understand."

He'd stepped away from the door and she'd followed him inside. Turning, he said, "You are welcome to stay if you like. I will be meditating."

He disappeared down the hall and she stood, surprised—and if she is honest, a little hurt. She made a cup of tea and sat on the sofa to drink it. When Spock still hadn't reappeared by the time she finished, she washed up her mug and left.

As her heart rate finally slows, Nyota scoots back down and rolls over in the bed, closing her eyes and willing herself not to worry, to fall back to sleep. The sudden noise of the shower startles her, and with a jerk, she looks across the room. If Gaila is in the bed—

Getting up, Nyota hurries to the bathroom and pushes open the door. Gaila stands beside the shower, undressed, a towel around her red curls.

"You're up early!" her roommate says, laughing.

Nyota's mouth drops. "Who's that in your bed—"

"Is Luke still here? That lazy git!"

Nyota flushes and rests her hands on her hips. "I thought we talked about this."

"Stop asking me to be human," Gaila says. "You're so… _anthropomorphic."_

Despite herself, Nyota giggles. "I taught you that word," she says at last.

"Good job, Teach," Gaila says, stepping into the shower. "You should be proud."

"No, seriously, Gaila, we need to talk about this—about boundaries. Bringing guys into our room makes me very uncomfortable."

"Anthropomorphic!" Gaila trills as the water sluices over her.

From long experience Nyota knows there's no point in arguing with Gaila when she's in this mood. Instead, she heads back to the bedroom, ready to give Gaila's current paramour the proverbial boot—but he's already gone, Gaila's bed its usual untidy mess of covers.

Forget trying to sleep. With a sigh, she unwraps her hair and changes into her uniform. By the time Gaila emerges from the bathroom Nyota has tidied up and is heading out for breakfast.

Despite the early hour the cafeteria is already busy. As Nyota grabs a carton of yogurt and slides into a chair, she glances up at the large vid screen on the wall. The local news is on, a familiar newscaster framed by one of San Francisco's icons, the Golden Gate Bridge.

And not just any shot of the bridge, but the view from the west gate of the Academy. As Nyota watches, the camera pulls back and she can see the west gate guard house, a line of people carrying signs walking past.

The people with signs are protestors, members of Earth United, a xenophobic group whose ideology is frankly racist and reactive and misinformed, demonizing people from other worlds and calling for their deportation from Earth. Recently they've set up camp outside the west gate of the Academy, presumably because Starfleet actively recruits non-Terrans as cadets. Whenever Nyota sees Earth United's leaders on the news feeds, she's angry that they have such a public platform to air their perceived, faulty grievances. By contrast, the opposition's voice is almost silent.

The camera turns in a different direction and Nyota drops her spoon in surprise: Spock, the news anchor shoving a microphone towards him. The footage isn't live—from the angle of the sun it was shot in the afternoon, probably yesterday, though Nyota can't figure out why Spock would have been at the west gate. His apartment is on the other side of the campus near the east gate.

"Commander," the anchor says, "can we speak to you?"

The look he gives the news anchor is the same one Nyota's seen him give a tardy cadet or one wasting the class's time with a thoughtless comment. The anchor, however, is undaunted, and she matches Spock's stride, the camera bobbing along.

"Commander? A word?"

Spock stops abruptly but a sudden uptick in the noise level in the cafeteria keeps Nyota from hearing the question or Spock's reply. In a rush, she makes her way outside and flicks on her PADD, searching for the link to the newscast.

It isn't hard to find. As she walks and looks down at her PADD, she slows and stops, like a rock in stream, cadets detouring around her.

" _Commander? A word?"_

And there Spock is, his words recorded, permanent, as shocking as if spoken by someone she doesn't know at all.

Which, she thinks, is truer than she realized.

X X

"I saw you on the news."

Nyota's tone of voice doesn't match her words and Spock looks up from the stack of flimplasts he's grading at his desk. She stands in the doorway of his office, one hand on her hip.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" Her words ricochet around the room.

"Regarding?"

"What you told the reporter? About the protestors?"

"I do not understand your question."

"Spock, on the news you made it sound like that group, Earth United, was _reasonable_ instead of the evil people they are."

Anger, certainly, but Nyota's tone of voice also implies confusion.

"I said I understood their xenophobia, and I do," Spock says.

"Well, I don't! And I don't see how you can!"

What to tell her? That Vulcans can be as xenophobic as humans? The negative consequence of an eidetic memory—he recalls without wanting to a succession of bullies, Stonn prominent among them. "He has human eyes." It was not a simple observation when Stonn said it. And this: "Your mother is a human whore."

"Go home," the Earth United protestors shouted when Spock went out of his way every day to walk past them at the gate. "Earth is for humans!"

Compared to the insults he'd heard for years these are bland words indeed. He hardly hears them, so focused is he on making sure he draws the attention of the protestors, forcing them to acknowledge his presence. Since the protestors began their daily vigil at the west gate 18 days ago, Spock has started detouring that way home even though doing so adds 43 minutes to his commute.

"The other children will learn to accept you in time," he recalls one of his teachers telling him after overhearing a group of older boys taunting him.

But it wasn't true. Only later, after Sybok left to join the outcast _V'tosh ka'tur_ , did Spock understand the depth of Vulcan prejudice.

He pushes aside the flimplasts and motions to Nyota to sit in the chair beside his desk. With an audible sigh, she does. Because her brows are still knit and her mouth is turned down, he waits for her to speak first, a lesson learned from growing up with a human mother.

"It's just—" she says, stammering to a stop. "It's just, when the interviewer asked you if you supported more non-Terrans coming to Starfleet, you said you were not able to speak for the Academy. I thought you _did_ want Starfleet to recruit more off-worlders. I've heard you say that the more diverse a student population, the greater the potential for learning. So which is it? You do or you don't think Starfleet should recruit non-Terrans?"

"My answer to the interviewer was accurate. I cannot speak for anyone other than myself. That I personally advocate for a more inclusive student body is immaterial to what Starfleet does or does not do."

"But you made it sound like you didn't care! Like you tacitly support the protestors!"

"Understanding their position is not the same as condoning it."

"They advocate race hatred! There's nothing to understand!"

"Perhaps we have different definitions for _understand_." At once he knows this is the wrong thing to say. Nyota makes a huffing noise and crosses her arms.

"That's not all," she says, glaring. "When the interviewer asked you about the loyalty oath, you didn't say anything!"

"Untrue," Spock says. "I said I signed it."

The loyalty oath is, in fact, a source of genuine irritation, despite Spock's attempt to meditate away the emotion. It is simple enough—two sentences pledging allegiance to Starfleet above and beyond any fealty owed to an off-world entity. In and of itself it is hardly offensive. That only non-Terrans are required to sign it is what makes it objectionable.

Nyota uncrosses and recrosses her arms. "I know that! I know you had to, but it's wrong. Here you had an opportunity to say something about the injustice and you didn't."

"I signed it, Nyota. My personal disapproval does not matter."

"But it does. The oath is unfair. The human faculty and staff don't have to sign one. Starfleet is letting Earth United dictate policy for them."

"If you mean that Starfleet is cognizant of the protestors and is responding to public pressure, then I concur."

"I mean that Starfleet should be above such pressure! And speaking out against an injustice is the right thing to do!"

"To what effect? Stating my objections will change no one's mind."

"Stop saying that! Your opinions do matter."

"But they are my opinions only. Professor Artura, for instance, believes that the loyalty oath is a reasonable precaution. On Andoria such oaths are commonplace."

As he speaks, he sees that this information surprises her, that it _takes the wind out of her sails_ , as his mother would say.

"Oh!" she says, blinking. Then she purses her lips and takes a breath. "But this isn't Andoria. This is Earth, and humans should be above such race hatred."

"You are confusing an ideal with the actual," Spock says. He doesn't freight his comment with any emotion—it is an obvious truth—but Nyota bristles.

"I'm saying that _true_ understanding leads to compassion, and compassion leads to peace. Without it, we get these groups like Earth United."

"An anthropomorphic idea," Spock says as gently as he can. "That may be true for humanity but not for others. You cannot presume to know what is best or true for people unlike you."

Nyota flushes—a sign that he's embarrassed her—and he feels a pang in his side as pointed as if he himself is the one being chastised. Curious, indeed.

"I—I know that," she says slowly. "It's hard not to…think of my values as…universal. But…you're right—"

She looks down as if meeting his gaze is a punishment. Again Spock feels the odd pain in his side. An image pops into his mind—an imagined scene of him standing up, taking two steps towards Nyota, and pulling her upright into his arms. The scene is so intense that he can feel her cool embrace, the way her hair will brush over his fingers, her face lifted to his. His urge to comfort her is astonishing—and new—overlaid as it is with the steady undercurrent of arousal he feels when she's near.

Pushing back his chair, he gets to his feet.

"Commander?" Professor Artura's voice from the doorway, the Andorian leaning heavily on his walking stick. How peculiar that Spock had not heard his approach.

"Is something wrong?" Professor Artura says, his gaze shifting from Spock to Nyota and back again. "I thought I heard loud voices."

From the corner of his eye Spock sees Nyota straighten, her expression blanking.

"Good morning, Professor," she says. "We were just discussing the news. About the protestors?"

Professor Artura's antennae swivel forward and down, signaling his mood. Curiosity? Dismay? Some emotion, certainly, but Spock isn't sure which.

"Interesting business, that," the professor says. "Reminds me of clan wars at home."

He nods and looks away, as if consulting some internal barometer. Then he says, "Well, if everything is alright—"

He turns and shuffles down the hall, the noise of his footfalls punctuated by the tap of his cane.

As Spock watches, Nyota rises and walks to the door, shutting it softly. Then she steps back toward him and he feels himself moving to meet her.

"I'm sorry," she says, her eyes large and luminous. "I know you don't speak for all off-worlders, or even all Vulcans. I didn't mean to turn you into some representative—"

Her pain seems to radiate like a heat wave, and before he can stop himself, Spock lifts his hand and brushes his fingertip along the side of her face. As he does he lets her see his earlier memory—Stonn yelling an insult in the practice yard, the other children forming a circle around them.

It's a memory he's visited more than once—each detail in sharp relief. Stonn's shoulders squared, his fists at his side flexing and unflexing, the expression on his face an indictment of the hatred he would have denied feeling.

"You do not belong here," Stonn says. "You do not belong anywhere."

That familiar rush of anger—the twitch in Spock's hand as he refrains from striking out—but this time the memory is different. Or not different, but enhanced. Two boys standing behind Stonn look frankly aghast. A girl from the intermediate class turns, calling to a distant teacher. Why hadn't he noticed that before? Looking around, he is astonished that most of the children seem—if not exactly sympathetic—then concerned.

He lets his hand drop from Nyota's face and the memory fades. He blinks and watches a tear spill down her cheek.

"I didn't understand your words to the interviewer," she says. "But I didn't know."

"Nor I," he says, aware that she will not fully understand his words now, nor what his words cannot say—that her vision has widened his own.

**A/N: So many apologies for having to skip ahead through so much exposition in this chapter…the hoverbus crash, Chris' visit, the moment they became intimate—but I've already told those stories and didn't want to repeat myself. As much as I love the misunderstandings rife in UST, intimacy breeds as much—or more—delicious conflict. Onward!**

**Thanks for reading and reviewing! I truly appreciate the support! Hopefully updates will be more timely now that summer is here!**


	10. Dinner Date

**Chapter Ten: Dinner Date**

**Disclaimer: All for fun and fun for all…no money made here.**

"May I help you?" The tuxedoed waiter steps toward Nyota, his head turned slightly to the side, his reservation PADD in his hand.

"I'm meeting someone for dinner," she says, looking past the waiter's shoulder to the darkened room behind him. This early—1800—only a few diners are seated. One rises and waves.

"There he is," Nyota says, and the waiter nods briskly and swivels around, leading the way.

The man waiting for her at the table is Chris Thomasson, one of Spock's human cousins. Nyota met him several months ago when Spock was seriously injured in a hover bus accident and Chris came from Seattle where he practices psychotherapy. Although he looks nothing like his Vulcan cousin—Chris is stockier and shorter, with dirty blonde hair that falls into his eyes—Nyota occasionally catches a glimpse of a similarity between the two men—the way they hold themselves, for instance, their shoulders back, their arms flexed at their sides. The way both men grow still and narrow their gaze when she is speaking—as if nothing else is worth attending to.

When she met Chris, Nyota felt an almost instant connection. More than that, really. An instant familiarity bordering on affection. Of course, at the time she was stressed by Spock's injuries, uncertain why he wasn't regaining consciousness. Chris had been the key to his recovery, showing her how to participate in a light mind touch, something that had entertained the cousins when they were youngsters. Although Chris confessed that he had trouble picking up telepathic messages from Spock, Nyota discovered that she could. With her fingers pressed into his palm, she could _hear_ Spock's words leap into her mind.

That was before they'd become lovers—even before they'd become friends—but the tingle of communication convinced her that what went unspoken between them was as powerful as any words.

Now she wonders if that's true.

Chris makes a sudden dip forward and kisses her cheek, his hand on the small of her back pulling her close. The intimacy catches her off guard—not that it is sexual or intrusive, but as she always does around Chris, Nyota senses that he is on the verge of asking her something and then deciding against it. She feels the same double step now—the rush toward her followed immediately by a hasty retreat. She'll have to think later about that—consider what, if anything, it means.

"It's good to see you," he says, grinning. With one hand he pulls the chair out for her before the waiter can. Usurped from his duties, the waiter stands to the side while Chris bustles around, scooting her chair to the table and handing her the napkin from her place setting.

"Madam," the waiter says, offering her the lighted menu, a hint of long-suffering patience in his voice. "Sir."

"I'm glad to see you, too," Nyota says, returning Chris' smile. It's true. She is glad to see him. Chris is easy to be with—good-natured and funny. When he first contacted her with a suggestion that she and Spock join him for a meal while he was in San Francisco for a conference, she agreed right away, sure that Spock would be glad to see his cousin.

"I looked at your calendar," she told Spock when he returned to his office after giving a cybernetics lecture to his computer science class, "and you have nothing scheduled this Friday night."

"I do have things to do that evening," Spock said, sorting through a stack of flimplasts as he settled in the chair at his desk. Nyota crossed her arms and waited for him to explain. He glanced up and said, "You, of course, are free to meet with him. Please make my apologies."

"You mean—you aren't going? For dinner?"

"As I indicated, I am occupied on Friday."

"Spock, Chris is only in town for one night. You haven't seen him since the accident. He was here for days at your bedside. I would think you would want to see him."

She knew her words were fueled more by her own disappointment than anything else. She and Spock had so few opportunities to socialize together in public—the threat of the appearance of impropriety always hanging over their heads—that an evening out for a real meal with real company was a welcomed treat.

Spock's expression was unreadable. For a moment she thought he was going to change his mind, but then he said, "My wishes in the matter are immaterial."

"Don't be ridiculous," Nyota said. "I'll tell him it isn't going to work—"

"You have already accepted his invitation. Go. Enjoy the evening."

And that was that. He turned—physically shifted in his chair—so that his back was angled toward her, as is he wanted to punctuate the fact that the discussion was over. She felt her face flush.

If this had been an isolated incident, she would have made her excuses to Chris. But for the past few days she'd had the growing conviction that Spock was starting to avoid her—not in such an obvious way that she could call him on it, but slowly, slightly—citing work as a reason to pass over opportunities to share a lunch, for instance. Ignoring her playful suggestion that they hire a flitter and get away for a weekend. Something was up, though she'd had no private time to talk to him about it. When she was in the lab, students were always around. When she was in his office sorting his mail, he made a point of being too occupied for conversation.

Was he regretting their getting involved? Her heart hammered at the thought.

Chris sets his menu on the table and folds his hands.

"Should we wait to order until Spock gets here?" he asks. Nyota blinks in surprise.

"Didn't he get in touch with you?"

"No," Chris says slowly. "Should he have?"

"I'm sorry! I thought he told you. He couldn't make it tonight. He has…something…to do."

Chris is clearly as nonplussed as she is. For a moment he looks surprised; then he shrugs and smiles.

"Well," he says, "I'm glad you didn't stand me up, at least!"

"I wouldn't do that," Nyota says. "And I don't think Spock is really standing you up. He's just busy."

"You don't sound convinced."

Nyota is so startled at being this transparent that her menu slips from her fingers. "I—I guess I'm not. I shouldn't say anything, but—"

"But you don't have anyone else to talk to? I'm a therapist. I recognize denial when I see it. And someone who needs to talk."

Nyota gives a sigh. "I don't want to say anything about your cousin—"

"If you think you're being disloyal somehow, well, I already know he can be…a challenge."

"Not him," Nyota says, making a sudden decision to be honest with Chris. "Us. Him and me. That's what's hard. Figuring out how to be…together."

Chris is looking at her so intensely that she has to glance away. She really doesn't have anyone else to confide it—not her mother, who ordinarily is someone Nyota goes to easily, quickly, for advice. Not Gaila—who probably suspects she and Spock are involved but is hoping she's wrong for everyone's sake.

Even with Spock she has trouble putting words to the steady thrum of anxiety she feels—not only the worry of being accused of fraternization but the deeper, harder question to answer: what do they mean to each other?

She's never been in a relationship where the future is as murky and unsettled. Or rather, she's never cared that much about the future of a relationship. Not that she wasn't upset about break ups or separations, but her focus has been so laser like on her career that she's given short shrift to such thoughts.

Suddenly she thinks about it all the time.

At some level her anxiety is about that—her worry that Spock is not committed to a future with her and his pulling back—if that is what he is doing—is his way of letting her know.

She's not even sure _she's_ committed to a future together. Especially if they stay in the service, they are almost certain to be posted apart. Although Spock has said that his teaching assignment at the Academy is acceptable, she senses that at some level he's bored—or at least would welcome a change.

As for herself, she's been tracking the progress of the flagship's construction since it was first announced. To serve on the _Enterprise!_ That goal is like an unwavering star—or it was, until she finally admitted that what she feels for Spock is more than a crush or infatuation—is, in fact, the kind of emotion she had hardly believed in until now.

"I don't mean to intrude," Chris says, waving away the approaching waiter, "but if you want to talk—"

"That's just it," Nyota says, swallowing. "I really don't know what to say. There are so many reasons this is problematic."

"Such as?"

"Such as Starfleet regulations governing fraternization. Spock's a professor—a Commander—and I'm a cadet who used to be his student. That's tricky stuff. Technically we aren't doing anything wrong. I'm not being coerced into a relationship. He's not giving me a special advantage other students don't have."

She swallows again and looks up. "Well, you know what I mean."

"That's why you are keeping things under the radar, so to speak. Keeping a low profile."

"It's exhausting," Nyota says. "Having to pretend we are nothing more than a teacher and his aide. I'm always afraid I will slip up and say something too familiar, or someone will see me coming out of his apartment one morning—"

She darts Chris a glance and sees him blushing.

"I shouldn't be telling you all this."

"No," he says quickly. "It's okay."

The waiter drifts up again and for a few minutes they are busy placing their order. When he drifts away, order PADD in hand, Chris says, "I'm actually kind of relieved that your concern is about something as ordinary as Starfleet regulations."

Nyota frowns and Chris goes on. "I was afraid you were going to tell me that Spock's being a Vulcan was the issue. That you couldn't navigate what that means for the two of you."

At Chris' hopeful tone, Nyota's heart sinks.

"I wish I could say it isn't a problem. But there is a gap there. I'd be stupid to say I don't feel it sometimes."

"That's not what I mean," Chris says, tapping his hand on the table for emphasis. "Of course you are aware that Vulcans and humans are different. Of course that can be a problem. I certainly watched Spock's parents struggle with it. I love them both, but they are strong personalities and they get crossways with each other sometimes." He grins, obviously remembering something. "Though they have very different ways of expressing themselves."

"Tell me about them," Nyota says, leaning forward.

"Oh, Aunt Amanda is the best aunt a kid could ever have! She was always sneaking contraband to me—candy, hologames—things my mother wouldn't let us have. And she rescued me more than once from a scolding. One time my mother told me to do something—a chore or an errand—and I got busy with Spock in the backyard instead. Probably catching beetles—we had several summers where we had a massive collection—and Aunt Amanda made up some elaborate fiction about how we were working for a naturalist doing important research."

Nyota laughs at the image of Chris and Spock as boys.

"And Sarek," Chris says, shaking his head. "He always listened to me—asked me what I was doing and seemed to be genuinely interested. When I decided not to specialize in surgery, he was the only one who supported me. My own dad was so disappointed—he'd wanted me to follow him in the profession, I think."

"Spock doesn't talk about him much," Nyota offers. Chris nods.

"I'm not surprised. Sarek was hard on him. Maybe it's a father-son thing—the way fathers have so many unrealistic expectations for their sons—the way sons resent the hell out that. I know they care about each other, but Sarek didn't hide his disapproval when Spock joined Starfleet."

"But Starfleet is an important part of the Federation! How can an ambassador disapprove of anyone joining it?"

"Not _anyone_ ," Chris says. "His son. Spock was supposed to go to the Vulcan Science Academy and stay close by. I remember the kerfuffle when he left for the Academy. They didn't speak at all for years."

Suddenly the waiter is at Nyota's elbow, leaning forward and arranging a pretty plate of colorful pasta in front of her before disappearing again.

"If two rational Vulcans can't communicate, what hope do I have?" She says it with a half-smile, as if making a joke, but she knows that Chris isn't fooled. He sets his fork down and sighs.

"Look," he says, "I know it's none of my business, but for what it's worth, I've never been in a relationship where communication _wasn't_ hard. I know Vulcans are another story—that they can be reserved and private to a fault—but you can't doubt that you are important to Spock. I saw that the first time I met you—even when he was flat on his back in the hospital. You were the only one who could reach him, remember? And later, once he was out of the hospital, I could tell. This—" Chris waves his hand to include her—"means something to him."

Nyota spears a noodle and says, "I wish I knew that for certain. He doesn't seem to want my company these days. Lately he seems…far away."

The expression on Chris' face makes her pause. For a moment he looks disappointed, but then his eyes brighten and he grins.

"Hardly," he says, pointing behind Nyota. She turns and sees Spock following the waiter to their table.

"I completed my work and decided to join you," he says, settling into the chair beside Nyota.

"How'd you find us? I didn't tell you where we were meeting. Did Chris get in touch with you?"

"He did not," Spock says, shifting his gaze from her to his cousin.

Chris throws his hands up like someone in surrender. "Hey, I thought you were coming together. I didn't know I needed to send you a note, too."

"No matter," Spock says. "I deduced you would be here."

Before Nyota can chime in, Chris says, "Hundreds of restaurants along the waterfront and you knew we'd be here. Explain, Sherlock."

"67% of the available restaurants specialize in seafood, something you do not eat."

Chris meets Nyota's inquiring gaze and says, "I'm allergic. Always have been."

Spock goes on. "That narrows the field considerably—to fewer than one hundred options."

"Considerably," Chris says, smirking.

"Of those, 53% are highly spiced ethnic cuisines which I know from past experience you enjoy. Humans, however, have definite preferences, and since you invited both me and Cadet Uhura for a meal, your choice of one of those would be risky since you have not, as far as I know, discussed her food preferences."

"I like most food!" Nyota protests, laughing.

"The odds are that Chris did not have that data when making his selection. Hence I eliminated those options in narrowing down my search."

"Go on," Chris says, and Spock tilts his head slightly as if examining some internal file. "The remaining choices were all vegetarian restaurants, which given your sensibilities concerning Vulcan customs, made them likely destinations. They are, however, of unequal quality. Although I have seen you consume what I could consider ordinary or even sub-par fare on occasion, you would not invite us to share a meal of such low quality, particularly since the rarity of the occasion makes it, as it were, _special_. That left fewer than five truly well-regarded venues near the waterfront."

"How did you know I'd choose the waterfront?" Chris says. Without missing a beat, Spock says, "Visitors to the city seem to find the view of the bay particularly amenable. There are fine vegetarian restaurants elsewhere in San Francisco, but the ones by the waterfront are patronized more frequently."

"So you narrowed it down to five," Chris says as the waiter hands Spock a menu. "That still doesn't explain how you found us here."

"This," Spock says, "is the fourth one on my list that I have visited this evening. Without more data, I was unable to narrow the search further."

Throughout the exchange Nyota has hardly breathed, so fearful she was of bursting into laughter. Now she gives a loud guffaw; Spock turns to her and gives her an appraising stare.

She's about to open her mouth to say something when she feels the warmth of his fingers seeking her hand under the table. The telltale prickle of electricity snaps across her palm and she has a disorienting moment where her vision swirls and she sees the world through the haze of Spock's thoughts and memories and emotions.

Like watching a kaleidoscope, she sees a collage of images—a tiny bruise on her wrist after an enthusiastic evening of love making, Spock's horror speeding his heart and stopping his hand from reaching for her again the rest of the week. A summons in his mail queue to serve on a disciplinary hearing for a colleague—the charge unethical fraternization with a student. The disappointment when he refused her offer to stay over at his apartment; the alarm he felt when the owner of the deli near the west gate of the Academy gave a double take when they ate lunch there two days in a row.

The weight of deceiving her with stories of being busy—and over everything, the gnawing loneliness and need for her that takes her breath away. Not indifference, as she had imagined, or regret—but an aching, longing concern for her well-being that is causing him such misery he has no words to describe it.

Her vision blurs as her eyes fill up with tears.

"More data is just what you need," Chris says, lifting his glass like someone offering a toast. "More data for better communication. Let's all drink to that."

**A/N: Please forgive the tardy update. The summer has been a bumpy road so far. Hopefully this little offering is a pleasing read for you. Thanks for letting me know!**


	11. Interruptions

**Chapter Eleven: Interruptions**

**Disclaimer: Just playing. No work here.**

From his vantage point in the back of the shuttle, Spock watches as Nyota makes her way down the crowded aisle. Slowing her progress are other cadets stopping to stow their duffels and backpacks in the overhead bins.

Illogical and inefficient to bring so much luggage on such a short recruiting trip. A human tendency to over prepare? More likely an inability to adequately calculate the odds that a particular item will be useful.

"Who can predict the weather?" his mother would argue as she packed sweaters for tropical climates and sun gear for the rain forest.

Despite his rising irritation at the delay in their departure, Spock allows himself a moment to savor the time away from the Academy. Not his first choice of a journey—chaperoning a three-day recruiting hop through the closest ring planets, the current cadets meeting with potential students to make a pitch for a career in Starfleet.

Nevertheless, he hasn't been off-planet since his last trip home, and to his surprise, he feels an almost human wanderlust to get out into space again. That _feeling_ is one of the reasons he's started to think seriously about applying for a position on the flagship under construction at the shipyard in Riverside.

Another more pressing reason is that Nyota has made the _Enterprise_ her goal after graduation. Imagining her taking a post on the ship while he remains Earthbound is…uncomfortable. Distressing in a way that surprises him.

The seat beside Spock is empty—not a surprise. Except for the two other faculty members—both sitting near the front of the shuttle—everyone else is a cadet. Even those he knows fairly well treat him with more deference than friendliness, a distance Spock appreciates.

"Are you trying to look intimidating?" Nyota asked him once when he'd startled a student she was tutoring in the lab. He'd dismissed her question as a cultural misunderstanding—humans unable to read Vulcan facial expressions—but he's mulled it over ever since. He might, in fact, be trying to keep others at bay. Certainly his mother thought he was when he was a boy.

"If you keep that look on your face," Amanda scolded when they were out together in public, "no one will ever want to talk to you."

"Precisely," Spock said.

Closer now, Nyota makes eye contact and lifts one brow. An apology of sorts for taking so long to get to him? They'd discussed this beforehand—whether or not they should sit together on the shuttle.

"People might talk," Nyota said, and Spock did not disagree. His disappointment, however, prompted him to add, "On the other hand, you are my student aide. Our familiarity with each other is easily explained."

"Logical, you mean," Nyota teased.

"It might call more attention if we do _not_ acknowledge each other's presence on the trip," Spock said.

So it was settled. They would not share quarters, of course, but they might have some private interactions if they were careful.

Suddenly a thin green hand snakes up and takes Nyota's wrist. Her roommate, Cadet Farlijah-Endef, pulling her down. Nyota snaps another apologetic glance in Spock's direction as she settles her bag and disappears into her seat.

A surprisingly disagreeable turn of events. Spock tries not to glare when a cadet leans down and says, "Commander, is this seat taken?"

When the shuttle finally lifts off, Spock closes his eyes and attempts—unsuccessfully—to meditate.

X

The first planet on the tour has a higher water-to-land ratio than Earth, with 97% of the population living at the edge of the ocean on thin, crescent-shaped islands no wider than a few hundred meters. Both the ambient light and the reflective color of the water is a pinkish orange that seems to delight Nyota. More than once Spock overhears her telling someone that "it's like living in a rose!"

Since arriving, he's had no time to speak to her directly. Their hosts—humanoid colonists from other worlds—usher them swiftly to small, cramped rooms with furnishings even Spock considers spare. Unlike most of the cadets, he finds the temperature comfortable despite the excessive humidity.

A petite young woman wearing native garb appears at his door and invites him to join the others for a meal in the congregation room.

"I will be there shortly," Spock says, unzipping his travel case and unfolding his meditation robe. Already he anticipates slipping it on and silencing his mind. From the corner of his eye he notices that the young woman continues to stand motionless in the doorway.

"Was there something else?" he says. The young woman jerks back and disappears down the hallway.

Had he spoken too abruptly? _Are you trying to look intimidating?_ A relevant question, both when Nyota asked it months ago and now.

The young woman was, in all likelihood, merely curious. After all, none of the colonists are of Vulcan origin.

Still, being the object of curiosity is wearing, an old torment he feels no matter where he is. Vulcan eyes peer at him oddly when he is at home. On Earth he attracts even more attention.

Certainly he doesn't want to be bothered at the moment. The stress of the travel; Nyota's inaccessibility. He takes a deep breath and wills his heart rate to slow.

The noise of laughter and chatting catches his attention as he makes his way through the warren-like halls and finds the cadets gathered in a large dome-topped room. At once he spies Nyota sipping a glass of clear liquid, her face tipped toward a tall, dark-haired male colonist who is speaking too softly for Spock to hear. A potential recruit, evidently. From the look of things, one who is very interested in what Nyota has to say.

Taking several quick steps around the perimeter of the room, Spock comes up behind the two of them. Glancing over Nyota's shoulder and seeing Spock there, the young man starts slightly, his eyes widening a fraction.

_Are you trying to look intimidating?_

To Spock's satisfaction, the young man stutters some excuse and backs away. Swiveling around, Nyota says, "Commander! I had a feeling you were nearby."

"Your intuition serves you well," he says. She lifts her drink and takes another sip, clearly stalling as she formulates a witty rejoinder, something she also does well. Indeed, her verbal wordplay is an aspect of her personality that he finds most pleasing, and he leans forward a fraction to better hear her in the noisy room.

"There you are!"

Cadet Farlijah-Endef, her voice ringing out loud.

"Ny, you promised you'd sing with us before dinner! That song we rehearsed, about the Tellurian slugs—"

"Not that one, Gaila! It's ridiculous!"

"Then that Orion love song I taught you. You promised! We have to entertain the troops. That's an Earth saying, right? Come on! Oh, sorry Commander Spock, but we're the entertainment before dinner. You can join us if you want to. It'll be fun!"

"If you'll excuse me," he says, ducking away as Gaila circles Nyota's waist with one green arm. Nyota looks back over her shoulder and shrugs. It can't be helped, of course. These recruiting jaunts require an inordinate amount of time spent entertaining and feeding potential recruits, rather than doing what Spock would have preferred—spelling out the information about the Academy and the requirements for admission.

"It's a sales pitch," Nyota explained back when Spock was assigned chaperone duty for the tour, something he'd strongly considered appealing until Nyota volunteered to go, too. "People aren't going to enlist unless they see how it's going to benefit them."

"One does not join Starfleet for personal gain," Spock replied, "but to serve."

Nyota set down the cup of tea she was drinking at the time and crossed her arms, something she did when she was preparing to contradict him.

"The two aren't mutually exclusive. People who feel called to serve—who have a _need_ to serve—can do both when they enlist. Wining and dining them a little to get them to understand that isn't a bad idea. It'll be fun! You might even enjoy it. "

Now here they are, wining and dining the potential recruits on Mishis-Anconia. Repressing a sigh, Spock listens as someone turns on some digitized music and the crowd begins singing what apparently is a well-known piece of popular music.

It will be a long night indeed.

X X

The inhabitants of Salariax, the second planet on the tour, are not descended from human colonists but are typically humanoid, like so many species in this part of the galaxy. The reason hasn't been definitely settled, though many—Spock included—suspect a super-alien "seeding" sometime in the distant past.

Spock has heard several human cadets praising the Salariaxian physique—which is, admittedly, trim and athletic. Gender neutral, they are tall and muscular, with facial features similar to human eyes, nose and mouth. Instead of ears, however, they have fringed gills that enable them to exist under water as easily as they walk on land.

The planet itself is unremarkable, with two large land masses almost devoid of flora. A singular geologic outcropping near the major settlement is the only real attraction, with huge columns of basalt rising up from the ocean floor and towering over the beach.

"I recommend it," Spock tells Nyota over a hasty breakfast of flatbread and fruit in the area set up for meals. It's the first time since arriving on Salariax that he's been able to converse with her alone, and to his astonishment, he feels jittery, as if he expects someone to carry her off before he has had time to enjoy her presence. If she is anxious, she doesn't show it. In fact, she looks unusually rested and relaxed, as if the hectic schedule of meetings and parties suits her.

"You've been there? To the basalt beach?" Nyota asks as she spears a piece of yellow fruit and lifts it slowly to her lips. Spock follows the fork with his eyes, his breath catching when she takes a nibble. To his dismay, he becomes flushed and slightly aroused.

"I have not," he says, "though my cousin Rachel stayed here for some months doing research on the local marine worms. She says it is not to be missed."

"Dean and Daria are organizing a trip there this morning," Nyota says. "I was going to skip it and hang out here, but since you say it's not to be missed—"

She lowers her fork and Spock swallows. Nyota grins slyly and says, "Of course, you could come, too."

"The other Commanders and I have a planning session after breakfast that will keep me from attending."

"You just don't want to get wet. I know how you are about swimming."

Spock blinks in surprise. His natural aversion to water—or more precisely, to being immersed in it—is not something he has ever shared with Nyota.

"It is true that swimming is not my preferred activity," he hedges, "but it is equally true that I will be occupied this morning in a planning session with the other chaperones. Go. You will enjoy it."

"Well," Nyota says slowly, "since you're going to be busy anyway—"

Just then the long suspected interruption happens when Cadet Farlijah-Endef and three male cadets wander over to their table.

"Commander," Cadet Farlijah-Endef says, simultaneously acknowledging and dismissing him. "Nyota. You need to hurry up and get dressed if you're going with us. I told Poloto you were coming. He asked about you specifically."

She points across the room where a group of Salaraxians stand around a table sampling the breakfast buffet. One looks up and waves.

"See!" Cadet Farlijah-Endef says. "He likes you!"

"I've got to go," Nyota says, turning to Spock. "See you later."

She gets up and follows the other cadets and the Salaraxians out the door.

From the corner of his eye, Spock sees one of the other chaperones, Commander Wells, approaching, beverage in hand. She's a pleasant enough woman close to his mother's age, or so she appears. Spock realizes that he knows almost nothing personal about her except that she teaches theoretical mathematics at the Academy.

"Care for some company?" Commander Wells says, sitting in the chair Nyota vacated.

"I was getting ready to contact you," Spock says. "I will be unable to join you and Commander Thompson for our planning session this morning. Some of the cadets are taking an excursion up the coast and they require my services as chaperone."

"Really!"

"The terrain they wish to examine is not without peril. However, if you prefer that I meet with you and Commander Thompson instead—"

"No, no," Commander Wells says, visibly flustered. "I'm sure you're right. Keep an eye on things, so nothing goes wrong."

"My intention exactly. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to ask our hosts about the availability of swim wear."

X X X

By the middle of the third day of the trip, Spock feels that he might jump out of his skin. The close proximity of so many people—coupled with the _lack_ of sufficient proximity to Nyota—are irritants exacerbated by his difficulty meditating.

The last planet on the tour is so sparsely populated that the odds are high the few potential recruits who come to the information session will not be serious contenders for enlistment. Nevertheless, Nyota is particularly solicitous of each candidate she speaks to, giving them what Spock judges to be an inordinate amount of attention.

Even her lunch break is spent chatting with two male recruits whose interest in Starfleet is, Spock is 96.4% certain, predicated more on their interest in Nyota and less on a career in space. Although he sits at the next table facing the two recruits, if they feel intimidated by his glare, they do not show it.

In the afternoon the Academy students make personal presentations about their own experiences at Starfleet. As a natural communicator, Nyota does the best job by far. Spock is caught off guard when she points to him as she describes her xenolinguistics studies.

"Commander Spock actually teaches in two departments," she says, and the assembled cadets and potential recruits swivel in their seats and eye him where he stands, arms akimbo, in the back of the room. "His computer students are jealous that the language department poached him some time ago. They'd like to have him back, but we aren't going to let him go."

Her voice is inflectionless, almost dry, but Spock senses that her words have more than one meaning.

After the presentations the Academy cadets throw a party—or more specifically, they turn on synthesized music and serve mildly alcoholic refreshments. Spock catches Nyota's eye briefly but someone calls to her and she turns to the crowd. Giving one last look around the room, Spock exits and walks the short distance to the hangar where the shuttle is parked. He might as well go over some of the pre-flight checklists now if the pilots are on hand. Perhaps they will be able to get away sooner tomorrow if he does.

And not a moment too soon, he thinks with uncharacteristic annoyance.

The check takes less time than estimated—so he is not surprised to hear the noise of the party continuing as he passes back by. In fact, the decibel level is marginally higher than before, probably an indication of the rising alcohol consumption.

Despite his inability to meditate successfully so far, Spock returns to his room intending to try. At the door he pauses and places his palm on the entry pad. Then he keys in the temporary pass code he's assigned to the lock and pushes the door open.

Immediately he's on guard. The temperature controls have been lowered, the low light already on.

"Who is here?"

A shadowy figure rises from the bed. Nyota, a whiff of citrus and jasmine stirring in the air.

"What took you so long?" she says in what she refers to as her _come hither_ tone.

"I had a triple algorithm security lock on the door," Spock says. "How did you get in?"

"My question first," Nyota parries. "Where were you?"

In two long strides he is standing in front of her, so close that he can hear the sound of her heartbeat.

"Doing pre-flight checks for the shuttle," he says.

"Because you want to get away as soon as possible tomorrow. To get back home where you are comfortable."

"You know me well."

"That's not the same as understanding why you do the things you do. You are still a mystery."

"As are you. Now tell me how you overrode the security at the door."

But she leans up instead of answering, her lips brushing his own, and suddenly the question seems irrelevant.

X X X X

The next morning Spock is the first person on the shuttle, once again ensconced in the last seat in the back. This time as the cadets amble and dally and take more time to get their gear stowed and themselves settled in their seats, he merely blinks and watches through half-closed eyes. There's no hurry, after all. The trip back to San Francisco is little more than what his mother used to call a _hop, skip, and a jump._

When the shuttle engines begin to rev, Spock sits up straight, his heart racing in his side. Without consciously counting them, Spock realizes that only two cadets have not boarded, Nyota one of them. She left his quarters hours ago, saying that while it was entirely possible—even probable—that Gaila was herself busy in someone else's room, Nyota wasn't willing to take the risk that her roommate might notice her absence. She'd slipped away into the night, insisting that she could find her way back to the cadet quarters with no trouble.

Pressing his fingers against the hammering in his side, Spock does something so uncharacteristic that later he will meditate about it for hours before finding a measure of equanimity. What, he imagines, if Nyota met with an accident in the dark? If she encountered some unforeseen danger and was unable to adequately defend herself? What if she is, even now, hurt or harmed by someone with malicious intent, or if she has fallen and is unable to rise from one of the rocky paths that separate the dwellings here?

Not for the first time, he wishes they were a properly bonded couple, their minds linked, no mysteries between them.

How unlike him to fantasize and speculate with insufficient data, yet here he is, imagining the worse, half-rising from his seat and ready to charge down the aisle to hunt for her—when suddenly the top of her head comes into view as she steps into the shuttle, her duffel carried ahead of her like a shield.

Almost sheepishly he returns to his seat and watches her make her way down the aisle. Each step she takes is a balm to him, easing the pain in his side, calming his anxiety like oil slowing the motion of water.

And then—because sometimes the universe does seem more malignant than random—Cadet Farlijah-Endef sings out, her distinctive voice carrying all the way to the rear of the shuttle, and Nyota has no real excuse not to sit with her. As she puts her duffel away, she looks up as he catches her eye and she smiles, a secret message just for him.

An apology? A declaration of affection? A rueful commentary about her nosy roommate? Spock isn't sure, but it doesn't matter. _Understanding,_ as it turns out, is more difficult than merely _knowing_ someone. On one level he knows what Nyota means with her look, her words, her intonation. Understanding her, however, is going to be a longer adventure, one that can't be rushed or solved during a _hop, skip and a jump._

Closing his eyes, he leans back. Something to relish on the journey.

**A/N: Thank you, dear readers, for all the kind wishes and reviews during what has proven to be a challenging summer. Your faithfulness to this story has been a wonderful gift!**


	12. Kobayashi Maru Redux

**Chapter Twelve:** _**Kobayashi Maru** _ **Redux**

**Disclaimer: Don't own but wish I did.**

"Just the person I want to see!"

Nyota feels an arm drape over her shoulders as she starts up the steps of the biological sciences building. Without pausing, she turns her head and glares at Jim Kirk.

"I have a class in five minutes," she says, shrugging off his arm.

"Not a problem," Kirk says, his signature grin lighting up his face. "I only need one minute of your time. Please? I came all this way to see you."

Nyota rolls her eyes. "Don't you live in that dorm right there? The building next to this one?"

It's a statement, not a question, and Kirk chuckles in response.

"Okay, so maybe I didn't come all that far, but it's important. And I'm desperate."

Clearly she isn't going to get rid of him easily. With a sigh, Nyota shifts her PADD in her arm and pauses on the top step. "Alright," she says. "I'm listening."

Kirk's expression is suddenly serious. "Remember when you said you'd be part of my _Kobayashi Maru_ team?"

"I was, remember? I watched you go down in a spectacular defeat."

"Yeah, so," Kirk says, pursing his lips, "I've asked for another go. A redo. It's allowed," he says, as if to head off the objection she's already formulating. "I checked. I've already signed up. Today, 1800."

Nyota's jaw goes slack. Why would anyone want to do the _Kobayashi Maru_ twice? The test is not graded—or at least the cadets never know exactly how the Academy uses the results. A character assessment—that's all anyone is ever told. Only those students in the command track are required to take it, though almost everyone has participated in some way or another.

With a start, Nyota closes her mouth and tips her chin down. "Okay, but why are you telling me this?"

"I want you on my team again," Kirk says, a note of pleading in his voice. "On communications. I _need_ you."

"No thanks." Nyota starts toward the door. "I already helped you once."

"But you're the best in the communications program. I can't pass it without you."

"You can't pass it _with_ me. You already tried."

"But this time I know what to expect," Kirk says. "I know how to plan."

"Good luck with that. Now move. I have to go before I'm late."

As she reaches out to pull the door handle to enter the building, Kirk's hand darts out to grab her forearm. Nyota looks down at his outstretched fingers and then up at him, and to his credit, Kirk blushes and raises his hands like someone in surrender.

"I'm sorry," he stammers. "That was uncalled for. It's just—you promised to help me. I was counting on you."

"I did help you," Nyota says. "Promise kept."

"Your actual words," Kirk says, his grin sliding back into place, "were _I promise to help you when you take the Kobayashi Maru test_. Period. You didn't promise to help me one time only, but _whenever_ I take it. I'm taking it again, so I need your help again. Like you _promised_."

Puppy dog eyes—that's what Gaila calls Jim Kirk's expression when he asks for something this way. Despite herself, Nyota laughs. Kirk lifts his arms in celebration.

"Then you'll do it! Thanks so much, Sally! Or Susan! Or whoever you are, Cadet Uhura! You won't be sorry!"

"I already am," she says, but Kirk is leaping down the steps, not listening.

Walking down the hallway to her xenobiology class, she mentally runs through her schedule for the rest of the day. She's supposed to work in the language lab all afternoon, but she can tell Spock that she needs to finish early.

Nor surprisingly, Professor Lafferty isn't yet in the biology lecture room. Nyota takes her seat and taps open her PADD mail queue.

_I need to close the lab at 1700,_ she types. Almost as soon as she hits the send button, Spock responds.

_Explain._

In the past—before she knew him better—that kind of one word reply would have sounded abrupt. Well, it _is_ abrupt, but she would have interpreted it to mean more than it does. Now she knows it is Vulcan verbal efficiency, pure and simple. She gives a little smile.

_One of the cadets is taking the Kobayashi Maru at 1800 and asked me to be a team member. I agreed._

The noise level in the class rises suddenly and Nyota looks up as Professor Lafferty enters. Raised on Terlilian, he's an expert on xenoamphibians in the ring colonies. He's funny and gregarious and popular—and often late and disorganized. As much as Nyota appreciates his lectures, she finds his freewheeling attitude about time and grades an annoyance. Give her a professor like Spock any day—punctual and exacting to a fault—over someone so _casual_.

Today is no different. Surrounded by several students, the professor makes his way slowly to the front of the room, talking and laughing and completely oblivious to the students who are already seated and waiting for him to begin. With a little huff, Nyota looks at her PADD. To her surprise, Spock has written back only a single word.

_Unwise._

Immediately she's rankled. What does he mean? That it's unwise to close the lab early, or unwise to help a cadet with the _Kobayashi Maru_? Is he disappointed that she's leaving early because he wanted to spend time with her, constrained as it is? Or is he commenting about Jim Kirk? As the lead programmer of the _Kobayashi Maru_ , Spock would know who was requesting an unprecedented retake.

So much for Vulcan verbal efficiency. What good is it if it causes confusion? Her fingers fly over her PADD.

_You explain._

Again Spock's reply is almost instantaneous.

_Lab hours have been posted. Students expect you._

Nyota's face flushes; she feels scolded, and angry. It's not like Spock to state the obvious, and she holds her fingers over her PADD, ready to tell him so.

"Cadet Uhura!" Professor Lafferty's voice reverberates in the lecture hall. Nyota jumps and looks to the front of the room where the professor is standing, one hand pointing to her. She's startled—not just because he called her name or that he has obviously started class while she was distracted, but because every eye in the room is now on her. "Yes, you, Cadet. Your research on the divergent evolution of bloodtooth nematodes was exemplary. Do I have your permission to post it as a model for all of those who did _not_ turn in an acceptable paper?"

Professor Lafferty sweeps his gaze around the room meaningfully as he says this—and Nyota flushes in embarrassment. Although xenobiology is not a particular interest of hers, she works as hard in this class as she does in her communication courses and it shows. And of course Spock _does_ have a particular interest in xenobiology and is willing—even eager—to spend hours discussing it with her. The payoff is that she feels as comfortable in the class as if she were a biology major, like most of the other students.

"Uh, no, that's fine," she stutters. Some of the eyes on her are filled with admiration; others with envy. Well, she can't do anything about what people _feel_. She didn't ask for special recognition.

"Thank you," Professor Lafferty says. "Now, if everyone will direct your attention to the screen, I want to show you some pictures of a recently discovered species of eels on Cestis Three—"

Relieved when the students turn their attention from her, Nyota lowers her eyes to her PADD and rereads Spock's last comment: _Lab hours have been posted. Students expect you._

Taking a deep breath, she writes, _You could staff the lab for me. Problem solved_.

She's half joking—but half serious, too. Spock usually works in his office while she works with students in the language lab—so technically he's available if anyone needs his help. How much trouble would it be for him to sit in the lab for an hour instead of in his office?

Her PADD makes an audible _ding_ as his reply flashes on the screen—and the student sitting to her left puts his finger to his lips.

"Sorry!" she says, mortified. With the flick of her thumb she mutes the sound and then angles the PADD to read.

_I will be unavailable at that time. Your presence is necessary._

No, it isn't! She sets the lab hours. She can change them! What was she thinking just a few minutes ago—that she preferred Spock's fondness for following the rules more than Professor Lafferty's loose-in-the-saddle style?

The student to her left shifts in his seat and glares, but Nyota pointedly ignores him and continues to tap her fingers hard on her PADD.

_I'll make up the lost time later this evening. My presence at the Kobayashi Maru test is necessary._

Part of her annoyance is with Jim Kirk for putting her in this position. Not that she _wants_ to waste a fruitless two hours watching him crash and burn again—which she has no doubt he will.

But another, larger, part of her annoyance is with Spock—for being prickly or rigid or _something_ about her helping out another cadet. If, in fact, that's why he is being prickly or rigid or something.

Peering at her PADD, she waits for Spock's reply. Nothing.

"Cadet Uhura? Do I have your attention?"

Professor Lafferty again—and with a start Nyota realizes that she must not have heard him call her name the first time.

"I'm sorry, Professor. I was…busy."

No one actually laughs, but Nyota feels a wave of amusement at her expense travel around the room. If anyone was envious of her being called out before, surely now they aren't.

As the professor calls on another student, Nyota resists the temptation to slump in her seat. Instead, she sits up straight—almost defiant—and spends the rest of the hour both listening to the lecture and planning what she's going to say when she sees Spock.

X X X

"Hey, it's going to be alright." From the simulation control room window overlooking the mock-up, Spock watches as Nyota drapes her arm over Jim Kirk's slumped shoulders. "You gave it your best shot."

"Yeah, that's what bothers me." Cadet Kirk's voice is rough with what Spock assumes is the distress humans typically demonstrate when faced with failure. Pulling her arm away, Nyota pats Kirk lightly on the back, like someone comforting a child.

Which in a way she is. Cadet Kirk should have known better than to think he could beat the _Kobayashi Maru_ with pure bravado. If anything, his performance this time was worse than the first. Granted, the test wasn't exactly the same—though the titular ship was still the focus. This time instead of three Klingon cruisers, the test crew had to deal with two cloaked Romulan warbirds—requiring a much more nuanced strategy than the one Cadet Kirk tried to employ.

The young man walks out of Spock's field of vision, exiting the mock-up room. Slowly, Nyota turns toward the glass, puts her hands on her hips, and looks in his direction.

He's doubtful that she can actually see him—but she _appears_ to know where he is. Spock feels a shiver he can't account for. Gathering his briefcase, he hurries out of the control room and down the stairs. By the time he reaches the bottom, Nyota is already there.

"Was that really necessary?"

Her question catches him up short. The tone denotes that she is angry, though why she is escapes him.

"The cadet requested the test," he says simply, taking a step down the hall to the exit. After a moment, Nyota follows and catches up.

"Did you have to make it so…so… impossible! Are you trying to beat him down?"

A sudden pang in his side shortens his breath. She's angry on Cadet Kirk's behalf. What does that signify?

Swallowing, Spock says, "The test was within prescribed parameters—no more challenging for Cadet Kirk than for other trainees—"

"Romulans! Cloaked ships! What trainee can deal effectively with those? That would hard for experienced starship captains!"

"Precisely," Spock says, trying to sound calmer than he feels. "The test was designed to offer realistic but challenging scenarios."

"But you're setting cadets up to fail. Do you know how discouraging that is—how demoralizing it is?"

"Learning to deal effectively with negative emotions is an essential part of any cadet's education. No one should be in the command track who hasn't gained that measure of control."

"You're saying that a starship captain shouldn't have emotions."

"I am saying that mastery of emotions is a critical aspect of command."

"I guess you'd be happier if Vulcans were in charge."

As soon as she says the words, her hand is at her mouth—a fruitless human gesture indicating a desire to withdraw a spoken comment.

"I'm sorry," she says, her eyes brimming. "I didn't mean that."

Spock pauses before the door leading outside the building and considers how to respond. It's an entrenched human idea, the notion that Vulcans are emotionless, and one Nyota surely does not ascribe to. However, even if she does not mean her words literally, she is telling him something.

"Perhaps you should tell me what you _do_ mean," he says at last, pushing open the door and waiting as she exits first. The sun has been down for 32 minutes and the temperature has dropped accordingly. Nyota shivers visibly and Spock struggles not to press against her as they begin walking across the commons toward the language lab.

"I mean," she says slowly, "those cadets who fail the _Kobayashi Maru,_ they're going to be disappointed. They're going to be upset. That doesn't mean they won't make good captains one day. Humans just don't have the control you have. You don't understand how hard it is to _not_ feel something."

For a few moments their footfalls are the only sound. To his dismay, Spock is stung by Nyota's words—and by what they mean.

"Is that what you believe?" he says. In the twilight her face is in shadow, her expression unreadable. He goes on.

"I have not taken the _Kobayashi Maru_ test, but if I did, I would feel anger and dismay and disappointment when I failed—and I would fail. Negative emotions are not unknown to me. I know what it is to be lonely and afraid, to feel regret, to be ashamed—"

"I didn't mean that you don't feel!"

Another declaration about what she doesn't mean. Picking his words carefully, Spock starts again.

"I control my emotions because I _must_ , Nyota, or they will overwhelm me. Just as every starship captain must control his emotions for the safety of his crew. There is no choice in the matter. The _Kobayashi Maru_ is, above all, a test of character. If such a lesson causes discomfort, that is unfortunate but unavoidable."

Darting a glance in her direction, he can see that her head is tucked down, her arms crossed across her chest in an ineffectual attempt to conserve body heat. As they reach the broad white steps of the language building, Nyota jiggles from one foot to another in the cold.

For a few moments they stand in silence, and then Spock says, "You are incorrect when you say that I do not understand how hard it is to _not_ feel something." He waits a beat and then adds, "Our relationship is proof that I _do_ understand."

He should say more—he can tell from her head canted to the side that she is listening intently, that she expects him to continue.

But how to put into concise, precise words what he means—that from the first time he saw her he has struggled _not_ to feel, _not_ to be pulled, _not_ to indulge in fantasies and dreams about her. How his mind has lost an unequal battle with his metaphorical heart, how his literal heart speeds up when he sees her.

He should try to tell her all this—but he is suddenly very, very tired.

Later, maybe, after she finishes the make-up hour she's scheduled in the lab, he'll try again to let her know that more than anyone he understands the _Kobayashi Maru_ —how each day he fails his own character test, willingly, risking his career in Starfleet, and hers, too, for this _feeling_ he can hardly name, that he can hardly control, that threatens to consume him.

**A/N: I've been out of town and off the grid—but hopefully my muse and I are back for awhile! Your reviews help! Thanks to everyone who reads and leaves a note!**


	13. Meet the Parents

**Chapter 13: Meet the Parents**

**Disclaimer: Just playing here, folks.**

Leaning forward slightly over Cadet Lee's keyboard, Nyota taps out a series of numbers and stands up, waiting. For a few moments nothing happens, and then the screen clears.

"There!" Nyota says triumphantly. "That should reset the program where you want it."

Cadet Lee, a second year student studying xenoarchaeology, runs her fingers through her short black hair and sighs. "Thanks, Uhura. I was about to give up. I've wasted almost an hour trying to do that."

"Next time ask for help sooner." Nyota grins to soften her quip and several other students in the language lab snicker out loud.

Suddenly the curls on the back of her neck prickle—as if the air is charged with electricity. Looking up, she sees Spock standing at the doorway watching her. Lifting her hand in a wave, she makes her way across the room toward him.

"I knew you were here," she says softly, and something—disbelief, amusement—flickers through Spock's expression.

"Highly unlikely," he says. He takes two steps out into the hall and Nyota follows him.

"I can _feel_ you," Nyota says. "Whether you believe me or not."

"Belief does not make something true," Spocks says swiftly. Before he can continue, Nyota says, "And _not_ believing it doesn't make it untrue!"

This time his expression is unmistakable: The ghost of a smile curls up the corner of his mouth.

"You know I'm right," Nyota says. "Logical, even."

"I do not disagree."

"Good. I'm glad you're here. I want to ask you something, but first you need to look at your mail. A packet came for you earlier from Vulcan. It looked important."

The bemusement in Spock's face disappears immediately. Stepping around her and entering the lab, he crosses the space to the instructor's computer console and calls up his mail queue. Nyota stands a few feet apart, eyeing him closely.

Spocks taps the screen once and then straightens.

"Bad news?" Nyota asks hesitantly.

"A family obligation," Spock says. "Or to be more precise, a request for my attendance at a family ceremony."

"On Vulcan?"

"Indeed. A distant relative is hosting her baby's naming day at the family compound outside Shi'Kahr. My mother has asked me to accompany her as my father's health is still uncertain."

Nyota's heart gives a little flutter. "I thought your father was doing better. The medicine—"

"Apparently is of limited benefit. The healers are considering surgery to correct the underlying heart defect."

"Oh! I'm so sorry!" Nyota has a mental image of Spock's mother—a woman she has spoken to only once—and his father, the Ambassador she helped briefly at a recent Federation assembly. Neither one knows she is anything other than Spock's student aide, a fiction by omission that troubles her more than she likes to admit.

Nor has she told her own parents about her relationship with Spock—an omission she deals with primarily by limiting how much she talks to them and by how often she goes home. An officer on a Starfleet research vessel, her father is rarely at home anyway—but her mother expects her to call every week, even if their conversations are brief.

"When are you leaving?" she asks. Spock's head bobs a fraction, as if he is taken aback.

"I am not going," he says. "My duties here preclude taking leave now."

"But someone could cover your classes," Nyota protests. "Professor Artura, in fact. He's only teaching one section this semester."

"My participation in the ceremony is not essential. My presence in class is."

"Your mother _asked_ you to come," Nyota says. "You said she needs you to go with her."

"My mother is fully capable of getting herself to the ceremony without my help."

"Maybe she just wants you there," Nyota says. "You know, for company."

Spock twitches so slightly that if Nyota had not been looking at him carefully, she would have missed it. He's annoyed? Well, she doesn't care. His mother deserves better.

"I am already scheduled to visit Vulcan," Spock says with a hint of impatience in his voice, "at the end of February during spring break. If my mother desires my company, she will have it then."

_But she wants to see you now—she wants you to go to the naming ceremony—you need to check on your father's surgery…._

Nyota bites her tongue and says none of these things. Not here, anyway, and not now. After all, she doesn't want to provoke an argument in the hall, not with her students working within earshot.

"Okay," she says, her tone communicating her disapproval. Spock narrows his eyes and says, "You wanted to ask me something."

Nyota's heart gives another skip. "I wasn't sure you'd be interested," she parries. A human would have urged her to continue. Spock stands still, unblinking.

Taking a breath, Nyota hurries on. "My family is in town. I mean, they _will_ be in town. I didn't know until a few minutes ago when my mother sent me a note. My dad's ship docks at 1500 and my mother is flying here to meet him. They want me to join them to dinner at 1800 at Bernardin's." She pauses and tries to gauge Spock's reaction. "If you want, you could come, too."

At last he moves, shifting his weight from his right foot to his left.

"Your parents."

"My parents."

"Dinner tonight."

"That's what I said."

Despite trying to keep the irritation out of her voice, Nyota clips her words. Spock blinks once and says, "That would probably be unwise."

Of course it would be unwise, Nyota thinks. A miserable experience, eating dinner with two people from whom she has to keep such a momentous secret—riding herd on her impulses all evening, scrutinizing everything she says, worried that a casual look or gesture might give her away. It will be hard enough to share a meal with her parents alone. If Spock comes with her, the dinner will be torture. He's exactly right to turn her down.

She knows all this, but she's instantly as angry as she is disappointed. Her face flushes and she feels herself bouncing up on the balls of her feet, something she does when emotions run high.

"You're busy tonight?" Her words come out a challenge. Spock snaps his head up and says, "As you are aware, Cadet Kirk has asked for a third attempt at the _Kobayashi Maru._ I have been tasked with reprogramming the simulation, something I wish to complete as soon as possible."

"And tonight is when you need to do that."

Instead of answering, Spock gives her such an intense look that Nyota begins to squirm. Taking a step closer toward her, he angles his head to the side and says so quietly that she has to strain to hear, "If you require my attendance, please say so."

Instead of angry, now she's abashed at being difficult. Or demanding. Or too much like his mother, making his presence a _requirement_.

"No, no," she stammers. "I just thought it would be…nice…but it's not necessary. Another time, perhaps, when things are more…settled."

With a determined—and utterly false—smile, she turns to go back into the lab.

She hopes he hears what she's saying—that she knows he's right, that meeting her parents is unwise right now. She wouldn't even know how to introduce Spock. Later—if and when she has words to describe what this is they have, when she knows where this relationship is going—then she'll find time to invite everyone around a shared table.

X X X

"You aren't going to wear that, are you?" Gaila screws her face into a pucker and holds her hand up with her thumb turned down, a human gesture she's recently learned and has practiced with glee—to Nyota's annoyance. Thumbs down to waking up when the alarm goes off, thumbs down to picking up her clothes off the floor when asked, thumbs down when Nyota tells her—repeatedly—that she isn't going out dancing with her roommie at midnight.

Glancing at her image in the mirror, Nyota twirls around and adjusts the collar of her blouse. "What's wrong with it?"

"It's so…so…boring!" Gaila rolls off her bed and lands on her feet as lightly as a cat.

"Here," she says, skipping to the closet door and pulling it open. "Try this."

"I'm just going for dinner with my parents," Nyota protests. "It's not a date!"

"No reason to look dowdy," Gaila says, apprising her. She has a point. The straight black pants and simple white blouse aren't her most interesting outfit. Still, Nyota's already running late, thanks to two students who had trouble saving their programs in the lab. She'd sent a quick text to her mother telling her she was running behind and to go ahead and order for her.

_We're fine,_ her mother wrote back. _No need to hurry. We are being well entertained._

Bernardin's isn't the best known or most expensive restaurant in San Francisco, but a creative chef, fresh seafood, and live music make it popular with the locals. Not a super fancy place, but fancy enough to call for something more formal than her planned outfit.

"Too short," Nyota says, holding up the simple black silk sheath Gaila offers her. Gaila frowns and reaches back into the closet. "This!" she says, holding up an even shorter dress. Grabbing the first one, Nyota rolls her eyes and quickly changes into it.

It is short, but not uncomfortably so. A quick glance in the mirror shows her that it is flattering.

"You win," she says to Gaila as she slips on her sandals. "Now I'm seriously late."

"You're welcome!" Gaila yells as Nyota dashes out the door.

The cool air is such a relief after rushing around that if she weren't already late, Nyota would walk to the restaurant instead of heading to the hoverbus stop near the computer science building. As she passes by, Nyota keeps an eye out for Spock. He'd left his office early, saying only that he needed to work on the _Kobayashi Maru_ simulation in the programming lab.

"No!" she calls out as she gets to the stop just as a hoverbus pulls away into traffic. Well, there's no help for it. Taking out her comm, she checks the bus schedule and sees that there's another one due in seven minutes.

Time enough to call Spock and ask him to change his mind. If he left the programming lab now, he could be here before the bus arrives.

For a moment her finger hovers over her comm. If she insists, she knows he will come. But when she'd mentioned the meal earlier he'd looked distinctly uncomfortable, even anxious. Spock's a private person, an introvert, and more than once he's told her that casual human conversation with strangers is a challenge for him. Does she really want to put him through that tonight?

With a sigh, she slips her comm into her purse.

The bus ride to the Embarcadero is uneventful, though Nyota spends it giving herself a pep talk. Not that she doesn't want to see her parents, but the secret of her relationship with Spock is like a toothache or a rock in her shoe—a private misery she can't ignore. As glad as she is to be with her parents, she'll be gladder when she's heading back to the Academy, the evening safely over.

Entering the restaurant, she sees her parents immediately at a table near the back. They are sitting side-by-side facing her, their heads bent to each other like giggly teenagers. They've always been this way, openly affectionate and comfortable in each other's company. Without wanting to, she contrasts the careful public distance she has to maintain when she's with Spock.

Just then her mother catches her eye and raises her hand to wave her over. Her father lifts his head and his face lights up. He starts to stand as Nyota threads her way around the other diners.

"You look beautiful!" she hears him say, but the words are a buzz. In the corner of her eye she sees that someone else is at the table, also getting to his feet.

Spock, dressed in his formal grays.

Nyota is so astonished that she stumbles. With practiced ease, Spock reaches out and takes her arm, shepherding her to her chair.

"Commander, what are you doing here?"

"If memory serves," Spock says evenly as Nyota sits, "I was invited."

"Commander Spock was telling us that he submitted your lab program to the Feinman Conference," Nyota's mother says with obvious pride. Nyota flushes hard, swallows, and darts a glance at Spock sitting at her left.

"It's not my program," she says quickly. "Commander Spock created it. I'm just the lab monkey."

"Your daughter is being modest," Spock says. He sounds so polished, so at ease that Nyota finds herself staring at him. She's never heard him like this. "Her modifications have increased the measurable end scores of the language students by 14.5%. Not an inconsiderable achievement."

Turning to her, he adds, "For a lab monkey."

Nyota's jaw drops. Her mother breaks into peals of laughter. Her father grins from ear to ear.

"When do you leave?" her father says, and Nyota blinks in confusion for a moment.

"Uh, for the Feinman Conference? We haven't gotten a definite confirmation yet, uh, have we? Commander?"

"Not formally, though I am certain we shall. None of the other proposals for language acquisition programs were as detailed and well-researched as the one Cadet Uhura submitted."

"I didn't really—"

"It's in Amsterdam this year, isn't it?" Nyota's mother says, and Spock corrects her smoothly.

"Close by, in Leiden. Are you familiar with the university there?"

And just like that Nyota loses any imagined control she had over the course of the evening. Vaguely she's aware that waiters come and go, taking their orders, bringing their meals, refilling their water glasses, clearing their plates. But mostly she's aware that her parents and Spock are talking, talking, talking—about the Academy, about her mother's work at a university in Kenya, about her father's recent assignment in the Omega sector. Her own contributions to the conversation are paltry, as if she's too shell-shocked to speak.

Before she knows it her parents are standing up and following her and Spock out into the chilly night air, hugging her and saying their goodbyes before flagging down a taxi for the ride to their hotel. Unbuttoning his jacket, Spock drapes it over her shoulders as they walk to the hoverbus stop. Only after they are seated on the bus does Nyota stop shivering—and not just from the cold.

"What just happened here?" she says, letting her fingers drift into Spock's palm.

"I believe it is called _meeting the parents_ ," Spock says, his voice mock solemn.

Nyota laughs. This humorous side of Spock is one most people don't see—and which she values all the more for its rarity.

"I thought you said you had to work on the _Kobayashi Maru,_ " Nyota says.

Spock lifts one eyebrow. "I am."

"You know what I mean," Nyota says, leaning into his shoulder. "I thought you were going to spend the evening in the programming lab."

"I am," Spock says, "in a manner of speaking. My assistant is there now."

_Gaila._ Of course. Spock hired her a month ago to help with the _Kobayashi Maru_ upgrades, and she's been complaining ever since that he's working her to death.

And then all the pieces fall into place. Spock would have told Gaila why he was not going to be in the programming lab that evening, that he was going to have dinner with—

"This dress!"

"Very appealing," Spock says, eyeing her so intently that Nyota feels a shiver of arousal.

Something new to worry about—what Gaila knows, or suspects. Why else would she suggest this dress unless she has an idea about what they are up to? Nyota frowns, weighing her options. Should she say something to her? Or to Spock?

Reaching out, Spock draws his fingertip across the crease of her brow, a gesture so tender, so unlike him that she closes her eyes.

The image of her parents is still there when she does—their easy way of touching each other, the almost physical need they have to be together. Because her father is so often away for months at a time? The rarity making them unwilling to be apart when they are in the same room? She's never thought about it before like this.

Perhaps this is what every couple knows—that no relationship is without sacrifice, that every relationship is a compromise.

Opening her eyes, she sees that Spock is still looking at her with his otherworldly attention, his eyes dark and hooded in the gloom of the bus.

"Thank you," she says, letting it encompass more than she can express. Dinner. The conversation with her parents. His fingers curled around hers, warm and tingling with electricity. The promise of intimacy when they are finally alone in his apartment, a hush coming over them both as they move into an embrace—moments of grace and love so rare that they take her breath away, and all the more valuable for that.

**A/N: Thanks so much to everyone for reading. Thanks even more to everyone who takes the time to leave a review! Triple thanks to everyone who recommends this fic to other readers!  
**


	14. Greeting Cards

**Chapter 14: Greeting Cards**

**Disclaimer: Free playground!**

Nyota pushes open the door of the antique shop and nearly stumbles in surprise. Jim Kirk, ten feet away with a hefty book in his hand. At the tinkle of the bell over the door, he looks up and they make eye contact.

"Hey," he says, so muted and unlike him that Nyota almost stumbles again. Where is the _Hey, Sally_ or _Just who I was looking for_ he normally shouts in her direction?

Shutting the door behind her, she makes her way toward him. "What are you doing here?"

"Nothing," he says, putting the book back onto a table. "Killing time. What about you?"

"Looking for a gift for someone. I didn't know you liked antiques."

For a moment she sees a flicker of amusement in his expression, but it disappears as quickly as it came. "Yep," he says. "I've always liked _holding_ them, you know? That tangible connection to the past. It makes me feel grounded, or something. Less ephemeral. That's a word, right? Ephemeral?"

He looks up and flashes a half-hearted grin. Nyota laughs.

"Listen to you," she says. "Not as dumb as you look."

"Yeah, well, maybe I am." His tone skitters so close to self-pity that Nyota bumps her shoulder into his own. "It's not that bad," she says. "You're taking this way too hard."

He's been this way—quiet and maudlin—since failing the _Kobayashi Maru_ test a second time. Not that Nyota has seen him much, but Gaila tells her more than she wants to know about how mopey and boring Jim is these days, especially in bed.

"Maybe," he says, picking up an engraved shot glass and holding it up to the light. "Captain Pike told me to wait a few months and then request a retake. Said he'd sign off on it if I keep my grades up and my head down, whatever that means."

He cuts his eyes at her and this time his grin is genuine. Nyota recalls all too well the brouhaha when some xenophobic protestors from Earth United harassed Gaila one night when she and Jim were leaving the campus—and Jim's response landed him in the brig.

"Then I'm off the hook," Nyota teases. "You can't stay out of trouble—so no more _Kobayashi Maru_ tests for you."

Kirk sets the shot glass down and picks up a folded paper fan. Gingerly he opens it, revealing a painted rose.

"Oh ye of little faith," he says, testing the fan. "I know you think I'm crazy to take it again. That it isn't a wise move. But sometimes you have to do things that aren't wise or you aren't really living. You have to take chances or you're dead, even if you're still walking around."

He pauses and looks her in the eye a moment before continuing. "That's why you need to put February 11th on your calendar. That's the earliest day the retake can be scheduled."

"Seriously?"

"Dead serious. February 11th. I'll need you then at communications. What do you think of this? Would Gaila like it?"

"You're buying her a present?"

"You gave me the idea. You said you came in here to buy someone a gift. Who's the lucky guy?"

Kirk pivots toward her and lifts his eyebrows. Nyota flushes and looks away.

"My mother. It's her birthday." The lie is swift and effortless—and necessary. She came to the shop hoping to find something for Spock, ostensibly for the holidays but really as something of a peace offering.

Or not a peace offering exactly, because they haven't argued, but as a conversation starter, an invitation to talk, something they haven't done much recently. Not since the notice from the Judge Advocate General's office showed up in Spock's mail queue last week, informing him that an inquiry into misconduct was being considered.

It all started when he applied for the position of first officer on the _Enterprise_. The in-depth vetting process apparently uncovered some hint of impropriety, some whiff of fraternization, which has made Spock skittish around her, hesitant to speak about anything other than work, reluctant to be seen with her outside of the office.

By the strictest definitions, they've done nothing wrong, nothing close to fraternization. Their sexual intimacy didn't start until she was no longer Spock's student—so her grades can't be called into question, though coercion and consensus are still issues that might be raised in an inquest. It won't be pleasant—and it will be awkward and uncomfortable—but Nyota is certain that if Spock is called in for a disciplinary hearing, he'll be exonerated.

Still—if it can be avoided…

In the meantime, she misses him. Even when they are working in the same room he's absent, his eyes rarely meeting hers, his body angled away from her.

Reaching over his head to a dusty shelf, Kirk pulls down a small box and brushes it off.

"What about this?" he says, lifting off the top of the box. Nyota leans forward and looks in. It's a collection of old-fashioned greeting cards, printed with illustrations on the cover and canned comments inside. Rifling through the cards, she sees that they are an assortment of birthday greetings and wishes for speedy recoveries. At the bottom of the pile are colored envelopes—necessities back when people sent paper mail to each other.

"How quaint," she says, taking the box from Kirk's hand and turning it over to look at the price. Something about the idea of sending formal communications this way is appealing—even fascinating—and she can imagine Spock appreciating the box of cards, if not for the sentiments portrayed, then as a human artifact. Despite costing more credits than she had intended to pay, Nyota heads to the front of the store.

"Hey, wait!" Kirk calls out. "You can't leave. I haven't picked out anything yet."

"I thought you were just killing time," Nyota calls over her shoulder as she hands the box of cards to the cashier.

"I have a new mission objective," Kirk says. Indeed, his voice sounds almost cheerful and he seems more animated. "I haven't been very good to Gaila lately. A nice present might be what I need to get some—"

"More than I want to know!" Nyota mimes putting her hands over her ears.

The cashier slides the box of cards in a small bag and hands it to her.

"Help me pick out something nice!" Kirk calls out as Nyota tugs open the door.

"You don't need me for this," she says. "This isn't a no-win scenario."

The antique shop is only a few blocks from the west gate of the Academy, but Nyota detours to a favorite cafe first, ordering tea and sitting at a table near a window so she can examine her purchase in more detail. To her disappointment, there are only four cards in all, though no two are alike.

In addition to a birthday and a get-well card, one has a photograph of what appears to be a dusty, deserted highway. Opening it, Nyota reads the caption: _Across the miles._

An odd sentiment, even from the past when travel was less frequent and more difficult.

Rubbing her hand over the surface, she marvels at the texture—smooth but not unnaturally so, and with a pleasing heft when she lays it out in her palm—just the kind of analysis she can imagine Spock making, though he would note the exact size and composition of the card stock.

Placing the card on the table, she takes out the last one from the box. It is bright yellow with painted sunflowers on the cover. _Congratulations! You did it!_ is printed on the inside.

Something about the motion of opening the hinged card—the picture on the cover and the private commentary inside—is inordinately satisfying. How unlike bare text this is, how much richer in every way.

Nyota reaches for her tea and her fingers drift over the card on the table, the mystifying one with the deserted road on the front.

_Across the miles._

Why would someone send a card stating the obvious about living far apart? She holds the picture up in the light and looks for clues to the meaning. The road rolls gently over an almost barren landscape of sand and scrub. On the horizon is a setting—or rising—sun, an ambiguous symbol of beginnings or endings.

_Across the miles._

_We are too far apart to visit._ Is the card a description?

_Across the miles._

_Come across the miles and visit me?_ Is the card an invitation?

Or is it both and more? A lonely commentary about being apart—a rueful plea for things to change?

Suddenly, Nyota reaches into her pocket and pulls out her compact stylus, the one with a mechanical pencil on one end. How did people used to personalize these cards? The words are already there. Should she add more? Wouldn't that be more confusing—maybe even contradicting what the card is trying to communicate? With a sigh, she signs her name and slips the folded card into an envelope.

Spock is still at his desk in his office exactly as he was when she left an hour earlier for her lunch break. Glancing up, he acknowledges her with a curt nod and then turns his attention back to his computer screen. In three steps Nyota is beside his desk, the card in her hand. Wavering just a moment, she sets it down and turns around, heading to the language lab at the end of the hall.

Two students are already waiting as she unlocks the door, and for the next quarter hour she is busy getting their programs calibrated. When she sits at last at her work station, she sees a flashing indicator light on her mail queue.

Spock—responding to her card.

_Please explain._

That's it. She's instantly disappointed. If the purpose of the card was to provoke a conversation, she's failed. Even if Spock finds the card baffling, he could at least say more than this. She types a reply.

_Metaphorical, not literal, miles._

There. Let him mull that over. She can't be much clearer about how unhappy she is with the distance between them. If past experience is a predictor, Spock will answer right away. Nyota rests her chin on her hand and waits.

Nothing. Another student arrives at the lab and she gets up to get him settled. When she returns to her station, she expects to see the flashing light but her mail queue is empty.

Taking the box of cards from the bag and opening it, she pulls out the one on top, a get-well card. The cover is a cartoon drawing of several ancient medical instruments whose names Nyota doesn't know but with obvious purposes—a stick with numbers for marking body temperature, a stiff-looking bandage for immobilizing broken bones, a sleeve with a tube and a shiny gauge to measure diastolic pressure. _Get Well Soon!_ is embossed inside.

After signing the card and slipping it into an envelope, she tells the students that she is taking a short break.

Alerted by the sound of her footsteps in the hall, Spock watches as she comes into the office. Before he can say anything, she puts the card on his desk.

"For you, Commander. Read it carefully."

By the time she returns to the lab he's already sent her a note.

_Please explain._

Leaning over the keyboard, she types.

_Metaphorical illness, not literal._

When fifteen minutes pass without a reply, she pulls out the card with a photograph of a birthday cake on the cover.

_Hope your day is a happy one!_ the inside of the card says.

At the next scheduled break she takes the card, signed and nestled in an envelope, to Spock's office.

This time he starts to rise as she enters the room.

"Cadet Uhura—"

"Commander," she says, cutting him off. "I know you have been busy and…concerned…about important matters lately, but keeping the lines of communication open is important, don't you think?"

From the corner of her eye she sees him tilting his head to the side, his mouth opening to answer, but she hurries away before he can.

She walks directly to her work station and opens her mail queue.

_Thank you for your inquiry concerning my health. However, no day is happy when you are miles away._

That's a start. They have a great deal to talk about—not just the potential disciplinary hearing and what that entails, but the bigger picture, too—their career goals and whether or not a future together is feasible. Nyota's never wavered in her commitment to a posting on the _Enterprise_. Now her plans are complicated by her commitment to Spock.

At some level she understands why he's being distant. He's afraid that if they haven't been scrutinized before, they will be now—that not just his assignment to the _Enterprise_ could be in jeopardy but his career with Starfleet.

And more than that—more than his concerns about his own future—he's distraught that she might suffer in some way, her reputation impugned, her career track derailed. Although he's never told her with words, she senses that he blames himself and his lack of emotional control for their involvement.

She pulls out the last card, the one with sunflowers, and sets it aside until the lab hours are over.

For the past week Spock has made a point of leaving first, his office dark and locked when she closes the lab. Not today. As she heads to his open door, the card in her hand, she feels a lift in her step that has been missing lately.

"One more," she says, rounding the doorway. "Go ahead and open it."

He's sitting at his desk, flimplasts stacked neatly on the side, his briefcase packed with assignments to grade, his computer off.

_He's been waiting for her._

Taking the card, he pulls open the envelope with such meticulous care that Nyota bounces on the balls of her feet impatiently.

"Am I too slow?" Spock asks, his tone signaling a playfulness she hasn't seen since the notice from JAG. "Literally or metaphorically?"

"Some things can never be too slow." She tries to sound sultry but ends up giggling. Spock lifts one eyebrow and pulls the card from the envelope. His eyes flick over the message inside.

"Need me to explain this one?" Nyota says, stepping closer to his desk.

"I have done nothing to deserve congratulations."

"I disagree," Nyota says, sliding into the chair nearest the desk. "You got my signal, loud and clear."

"Your signal?"

"My messages. The cards. You understood them."

"Hardly worth congratulations."

"As I said, I disagree," Nyota says, leaning forward. "Communication is hard work, and you haven't been practicing much of it lately."

She waits a beat and adds, "I've missed you. This—" She waves her hands around the office. "—isn't enough. I need to be able to tell you things, to ask you what you are thinking about without worrying that someone will overhear our conversation."

"We have to be careful, Nyota."

"I'm not saying we shouldn't be. But being careful is one thing. Being incommunicado is something else."

As if on cue, distant footfalls echo down the hall. Not Professor Artura—he walks slower, almost a shuffle. In all likelihood it's either his aide or another student. Nyota goes to the door and shuts it softly.

"Get your things," she says, waving her hand at the desk. "Let's go get something to eat."

"It might be unwise to go together."

"Sometimes you have to do things that aren't wise," Nyota blurts out, startling herself. "What's the point of living so carefully that you aren't really living?"

An image of Jim Kirk's earnest expression flashes in her mind. Not wise, exactly, but certainly brave, and in this instance, right.

Spock apparently agrees. He picks up his briefcase and then just as suddenly puts it back down on the desk before standing up.

"Is something wrong?" Nyota asks. Spock shakes his head and moves so close that she steps into his arms, something they almost never do where someone could walk in on them.

"I believe we will be occupied tonight," he says, "with something more important than grading assignments."

**A/N: Thanks so much for reading, reviewing, and recommending this story! I appreciate you more than you can know.**

**Because I've written about this time period in our couple' lives in "People Will Say" and later in "Crossing the Equator" and "Deeper Into Darkness," I don't want to repeat myself...which means that I sometimes give quick exposition paragraphs to explain where we are in the timeline (for example, in this chapter, referring to the letter from JAG that puts Spock and Nyota on high alert about a possible disciplinary hearing in the future).**

**I apologize if that feels rushed or confusing to readers who may not have read my other tales. That's certainly not my intention...but I also don't want to bore anyone whose been with me through the whole journey! Please let me know if this is a problem.**


	15. After the Fall

Chapter 15: After the Fall

Disclaimer: All play and no work...not making any money here, folks.

"Commander Spock!"

A woman's voice calls through the crowded San Francisco spaceport. Shifting his duffel bag from one shoulder to the other, Spock increases his stride and ducks as nimbly as he can away from the voice. Startled passengers look up and part as he hurries forward.

"Commander!"

The last thing he needs is to be hailed by some curious onlooker who recognizes him from the news vids—or worse, a journalist wanting a story from a surviving Vulcan. Redoubling his efforts, Spock crosses the concourse and heads like a salmon going upstream into a rush of disembarking shuttle passengers.

In the two months since the Battle of Vulcan, Spock has been the object of attention wherever he goes. In the past he had always drawn curious looks on Earth—Vulcans being underrepresented not only at the Academy and in Starfleet but in an otherwise diverse San Francisco as well. Heads turned when he walked down the street or entered a store. Children pointed. Human curiosity: an annoyance, but understandable.

Now, however, the looks are overlaid with some emotion Spock can't identify—shock or sadness or anger—something that both pulls people in his direction and makes them oddly more cautious, as if they want to speak but are afraid to.

Nyota says they mean well, but he's not sure. Lately the Enterprise is the only place where he doesn't notice surreptitious glances, where a room doesn't fall silent when he enters.

The crowd thins at last as Spock reaches a connecting concourse. All around the vast room are seating areas for passengers waiting to depart through the various gates. Making his way to the section for the Seattle-bound shuttle, Spock slides his duffel into an empty seat and turns to sit down.

"Are you trying to avoid me?"

The voice again, this time at his elbow. Straightening, Spock faces a tall, regal looking dark woman dressed in a neatly tailored suit, the strap of a rolling suitcase in her hand.

M'Umbha Uhura, Nyota's mother.

Spock flushes and stammers, "I…did not realize that it was you who called out to me. Forgive me. I was…distracted."

His lapse in recognizing her voice is obviously more distressing to him than to her. Mrs. Uhura nods once and smiles.

"Of course," she says. "You didn't expect to see me here. And I know you have much on your mind."

She tilts her head slightly the way Nyota does when she wants him to respond—a learned mannerism, clearly. And effective. Spock surprises himself by saying, "Indeed. My thoughts are much preoccupied lately."

To his relief Mrs. Uhura doesn't ask him to elaborate. He would tell her if she asked—about the difficulty of the Enterprise's shakedown cruise, his guilt about leaving the establishment of New Vulcan to others, his recurring nightmares about his mother—

"How long has it been since we've seen each other?" Mrs. Uhura says as she slides her suitcase next to a seat and sits down. Spock perches on a seat facing her.

"Eight months, twelve days, fourteen hours—"

Spock stops suddenly and flushes again. Of course she didn't mean her question literally. It's the kind of communication that still trips him up.

But Mrs. Uhura's smile is gentle and she says, "As long as that? Then we are overdue for a visit."

"Excuse me, but why are you here?"

Mrs. Uhura waves her hand like someone shooing a fly. "Here? I'm on my way to Seattle to a conference. Don't know why I couldn't just teleconference, but the university president insisted that I come. Face-to-face networking with other deans is important, I suppose."

She tilts her head at him again in invitation but he has no idea what to say. Without any data about the nature and topic of the conference she is traveling to attend, he cannot comment.

After a moment, Mrs. Uhura says, "And you? Why are you here?"

"I am on leave," Spock says quickly. "My cousin in Seattle invited me to spend it at his home."

A lie of omission, his mother would have called that. Far too much unsaid. He studies Mrs. Uhura's face for her reaction but her expression doesn't change. If she finds it odd that he's on leave and traveling without Nyota, she says nothing.

Unless, of course, Nyota told her everything and that's why she's here.

Almost as if she can read his mind, Mrs. Uhura says, "I haven't spoken to Nyota in several weeks. I knew I wouldn't have time to visit when I came through town so I didn't tell her I'd be here." She pauses and then adds, "She'd be upset with me if she knew."

Again Spock has the sense that he's being asked or encouraged to do something, though he doesn't know what. Her tone of voice suggests a collusion of sorts. Is she asking him not to mention seeing her in the spaceport? That will not be difficult. He and Nyota are more silent than not with each other these days.

"She is currently working double shifts overseeing an upgrade to the mobile translators," he offers. This, too, is a lie of omission. Like him, Nyota is on an extended weekend leave. That they've chosen to spend it apart is something he does not wish to share with anyone, least of all with Nyota's mother.

"She's so busy these days," Mrs. Uhura says, nodding. "Of course, everyone is. But a mother never stops worrying about her children. In my mind she's still that little girl who never slowed down, who always wanted to be busy learning and doing something. She might be the only child on the planet whose parents had to take all her PADDs and books out of her room to get her to go to sleep at night."

Mrs. Uhura looks at him expectantly and Spock says, "Indeed. Even now she often falls asleep with a PADD in her hand."

Mrs. Uhura laughs out loud at that, and Spock is relieved that she does not realize what a sad confession this is, what a telling statement about their loss of intimacy. Or what a contrast to their time together…before. They'd kept each other in such a heightened state of sexual arousal that any private moment not in each other's arms was a moment wasted. They had tumbled into bed every night with such energy and enthusiasm that Nyota's lack of sleep became a concern.

That he finds her asleep with a PADD in hand these days—that he's not in their bedroom until he's sure she is asleep—is one of the reasons he's here without her now, waiting for a shuttle to Seattle.

"It might do you good to get away," his cousin Chris told him the last time he called. "You know, a change is as good as a rest."

Something his mother used to tell him when he'd beg off visiting home.

"I know you're busy," his mother would say, "but a mother never stops worrying about her child. It would do you good to get away from work occasionally."

And occasionally he had—heading to Vulcan for a few days during the summer break, once meeting his parents on Altair 3 when his father officiated at a treaty signing.

Still, he could have visited more. Should have. It would have pleased his mother—

"And what about you, Commander? Are you falling asleep with a PADD in your hand?"

An odd question, though Mrs. Uhura's expression seems gentle or kind. Has Nyota mentioned his nightmares? Doubtful, since she values his privacy almost as much as he does.

Spock weighs the cost of being forthcoming or letting the silence stretch between them. He's spoken to Mrs. Uhura at length only three times—none of them alone. She might find his honesty off-putting, the way humans do, asking for the truth but then setting it aside if it proves inconvenient.

"You know," Mrs. Uhura says before he can answer, "I can't imagine what you are going through, what you are feeling—and yes, I use that word deliberately. No one has any illusions anymore that Vulcans don't feel. Your suffering—your grief—has to be terrible. My father died when I was too small to remember him, but I didn't lose my mother until right before Nyota left for the Academy, and I feel her absence keenly still. If you ever want to talk—"

"I am fine." The words he intends to say, but Spock astonishes himself instead by describing the nightmares that shake his sleep—images of his mother reaching out to him, their fingertips brushing, the sorrow in her face as she falls away. Waking tangled and sweaty in the bed, his heart hammering in his side, Nyota's cool fingers pressed into his hand. The crushing, grinding grief almost physically weighing him down at unexpected times. The guilt for all he left undone, all he is leaving undone now.

And worst of all, the way he's pushing Nyota away—or rather, turning away from her, causing her pain.

As he speaks he struggles not to look down. At last he comes to a stop and leans back, folding his hands in front of him. Mrs. Uhura takes a deep breath and lets it out as an audible sigh.

"It might be helpful to see a counselor," she says, but Spock shakes his head.

"Vulcan healers are in short supply. My…needs…are minor compared to many."

It's almost verbatim what he's told Nyota—and Dr. McCoy, and the captain, at different times when each one made the same suggestion. Some of the survivors of the Vulcan genocide are small children who lost both parents, or are partners ripped from their bondmates without any mental preparation. By contrast he is functioning well.

"I see," Nyota's mother says. "Then you'll just have to lean on the humans who care about you. You said you have a cousin in Seattle?"

"Chris Thomasson."

"And your shipmates? Nyota speaks highly of them. Don't be afraid to ask them for help. Nyota's tougher than you think. Have you shared what you're feeling with her?"

"Not…everything," Spock says. "I do not wish to burden her." Nyota knows about the nightmares, of course, but what he hasn't told her—what he hardly admits to himself—is his growing conviction that the only way to stop the relentless, gnawing pain is to stop feeling anything at all. No sorrow, no regret, no…love. Nothing. Already he spends part of each day reading the treatises of the ancient Kolinahr masters; each day the lure of an emotionless life is more appealing.

Such a life would be devoid of many things he currently values, his relationship with Nyota first and foremost. He would have to let it go to achieve genuine control. Indeed, he has come on this trip without her to prepare what he will say when he returns—how they need to part ways, how he cannot bear to continue to hurt her.

Darting her hand into her pocket, Mrs. Uhura pulls out her comm and frowns at the screen.

"Wouldn't you know it," she says, glancing up. "An emergency's come up at the university. The president wants me to return as soon as possible. So much for the conference in Seattle."

Spock stands as she slips her hand through the strap of her rolling suitcase.

"Commander," she says, stepping so close that her voice drops to a near-whisper, "we don't feel burdened by the people we love. Don't be so hard on yourself. Your mother wouldn't want that."

And then just like that she is walking away, one hand raised in farewell.

Spock spends the flight to Seattle replaying the conversation with Nyota's mother.

We don't feel burdened by the people we love, she said, and he puzzles over that. He has, from time to time, found the requests from the people he loves—his parents, Nyota, his friends on the Enterprise—unwanted impositions, inconveniences, burdens on his time and attention.

But the people themselves?

Of course not. Gifts, his mother would call them. Even his troubling memories of his mother, as burdensome as they are, may not always shatter his sleep and send him into a vortex of despair.

At least, that's his hope.

XXX

"Baby Girl!"

Nyota stands in the open doorway of the apartment she and Spock share in San Francisco when the Enterprise is in Spacedock. Her mouth falls open and for a moment she doesn't move. On the other side of the doorway stands a stocky dark man wearing the uniform of a Starfleet engineer.

"What's this? No hug for your father?" he says, holding out his arms. Nyota leaps forward and grabs him.

"What are you doing here! When did you get into town? Oh, Baba, I'm so glad to see you!"

To her horror Nyota feels tears rush to her eyes. She squeezes her father so hard that she hears him grunt.

"Whoa!" he says, pulling them both across the threshold into the room. Wiping her eyes, Nyota pushes the door shut and then hugs her father again.

"If I knew I'd get this sort of reception," he says, laughing, "I'd ask the captain to schedule more maintenance rotations."

"The Antares is in Spacedock?"

"Just picking up some Federation bigwigs on their way to the new Vulcan colony. We're heading out tomorrow."

At the mention of the Vulcan colony, Nyota feels her eyes watering again.

"What's this?" her father says, shepherding her to the sofa and settling beside her against the cushions. "What's upsetting you?"

Sniffing, Nyota tries to smile. "Nothing, Baba. I'm just glad to see you. It's been so long!"

"Eight months, twelve days, fourteen hours—"

This time Nyota's smile is genuine and she laughs.

"You sound like Spock!"

"Where is the Commander? I was hoping to see him while I'm here."

Nyota's face falls. "Yeah, well, we've decided to take a little time apart to sort out what we want. Ever since—"

She swallows hard and blinks, determined not to cry again. Her father puts his arm around her shoulder and pulls her into his side, something that never fails to comfort her. Nyota leans into him and sighs.

"I imagine it's been a hard time," her father says softly. "And will be for awhile."

"I'm afraid, Baba."

"Afraid?"

"That I can't reach him anymore. That he'll leave without any word."

"He wouldn't do that," her father says. Nyota shakes her head.

"Yes, he would," she says. "He almost left Starfleet right after…well, right when we got back home. I'm not sure why he changed his mind, but he was ready to go with the colonists. And ever since, he's been…different. Distant. Like I don't matter. Like I'm just in the way."

Her father gives her another squeeze and then releases her, leaning away and meeting her gaze.

"Give it time. You have to be patient."

Despite herself, Nyota feels a spike of annoyance. She is patient—but Spock isn't making it easy.

"You don't understand, Baba," she says. "No matter what I try to do, he doesn't respond. I offer to listen but he won't talk. I try to talk but he won't listen."

She watches as her father stands up and makes his way slowly to the door of the tiny kitchen.

"What do I have to do to get a cup of tea around here?" he calls over his shoulder. Nyota hops up and busies herself for several minutes heating water and pulling mugs from the cabinet. Her hand touches the mug she bought for Spock one Christmas, a handmade wobbly-looking one that matches his asenoi. Pushing it to the side, she chooses two less interesting mugs.

"Vulcan tea okay? I'm out of anything else."

It's a symptom of her distraction these days that she's letting little things like replenishing the tea canister slide. Not just any canister, but the one where she stocks her own favorite Kenyan blend. Of course she's remembered to keep Vulcan tea available. She jabs her spoon into the mug and hands it to her father. For a few moments they stand at the kitchen counter and sip their tea in silence.

"How's the shakedown going?" her father asks, and Nyota is grateful for the chance to think about something other than her own sadness. For several minutes she tells her father about the many and various communications snafus—most of them simple mechanical or software glitches but all of them requiring lots of time to track down and repair.

"I don't really mind," she adds. "It helps me…not think."

"That doesn't sound like you."

"Baba, I told you—I've tried everything but I can't reach him. I really don't know what else to do."

"Maybe," her father says, gently lowering his mug to the counter, "just maybe, you are trying too hard."

"What do you mean?"

"You said you've tried to listen."

"I have!"

"And you've tried to talk."

"He doesn't seem to hear anything I say!"

"Then maybe you just need to be."

Nyota cups her hand around her mug and frowns. "What do you mean, I just need to be?"

"Just what I said. Just be. If it means being where he is, fine. If it means going down separate roads, maybe that's fine, too. Might not be what you want, but it might be what has to be. This thing that's happened, Nyota—well, it's extraordinary. Terrible, senseless, wholesale awful. And you can't hurry up how people deal with it. Not even yourself. You might just need to stop trying and just be."

The room is so still and heavy that Nyota hears her heartbeat in her ears.

"I'm not sure I understand everything you are saying," she says at last, nudging his elbow to break the serious mood. "But I'll give it all due consideration."

That's his own phrase, one she'd heard all through her childhood.

Baba, can I have a tiger cub? Baba, can I go camping in the mountains alone? Baba, will you promise to live forever?

I'll give it all due consideration, he would say solemnly, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder.

With a sudden twitch, her father takes his comm from his pocket and frowns at the screen.

"This is going to have to be a short visit, Baby Girl," he says. "Captain's calling me to come check on something in engineering. Probably nothing—just some extra housekeeping since we have illustrious guests for the next few days. Come give me a hug."

Later after she's locked the door behind him, she washes the mugs and dries them. Before she puts them back in the cabinet, she takes Spock's mug out and holds it in the palm of her hand, feeling its heft and turning it slowly to catch the glints of light in the glaze. It's a beautiful piece of clay—but fragile, too.

"Like us," she says out loud to no one. She puts the mug back carefully and picks up her comm on her way to the bedroom. To her surprise, there's a message from Spock in the text queue—but she sits down on the side of the bed before opening it. Her throat is hot and tight and she briefly considers not reading his message until morning. If he's sending her a farewell—

But she knows herself too well to wait. If she doesn't read it now, she won't sleep at all. Taking a deep breath, she remembers her father's advice to simply be.

I have arrived safely. Chris sends his regards. I feel your absence keenly.

She almost laughs out loud—partly from relief, but partly because she knows how Spock must have labored over that stilted last sentence, that admission that he misses her.

She starts to type a response—something funny like "Likewise!" or "I'll give that all due consideration!"

Or something serious, like "I miss you, too," or "hurry home," or perhaps even the sacred, scarce words she hasn't dared utter since he started pushing her away: "I love you."

Or maybe she will say nothing at all. Spock won't expect a reply. Nothing in his message invites a comment, though linguist that she is, Nyota has to restrain her urge to frame one in words.

Later, when he gets back to San Francisco, she'll tell him about her father's surprise visit and wander, idly, who the Vulcan passengers might have been and whether or not her father might have chatted with them. But mostly through the next difficult months she will think often of her father's advice to watch and wait—and be.

Author's Notes: Ah, dear readers, I have missed you! Hopefully my Muse won't take another vacation!

In this chapter we've finally taken a leap forward past the Battle of Vulcan. I've written several different stories about the immediate aftermath and the effects on our couple, and I don't want to simply rewrite those tales. I hope that doesn't make this story confusing or too out of kilter in pace and intensity. At any rate, I hope you enjoy it. Please let me know!


	16. The Ice Cream Solution

**Chapter 16: The Ice Cream Solution**

**Disclaimer: Only for love, not for money.**

"Is this is bad time?"

Chris Thomasson's still-boyish face looms on the subspace comm-screen, his light hair and blue eyes so unlike Spock's that Nyota understands why people have trouble believing they are cousins.

Twice in the past two days she's come back to her quarters on the _Enterprise_ and found his ID in her caller queue. Something must be up. Now at the end of a long shift she's finally had time to call him back. Settling on the side of the bed, she slips off her boots and leans forward, tapping the comm controls to adjust the volume.

"Sorry I missed you!" Nyota says. Chris gives a rueful grin and says, "Just wanted to wish you a happy birthday. Hope it's been a good one."

"I haven't even thought about it. Just another day!" Her tone is light and upbeat but Chris apparently isn't fooled. The smile disappears from Chris' face as he leans forward and his face looms larger on the screen. Before he can ask her anything else, Nyota says, "We've been incredibly busy here! Ran into some K'Normian pirates and had a little scuffle a week ago. All's well that ends well, though. Now we're doing some geologic surveys of some pre-industrial planets in the Cassiopeaia Sector. I won't bore you with the details."

"I'm not bored!" Chris says. His expression is so puppy-dog earnest that Nyota laughs.

"You would be if I bent your ear too long. I hardly think you want to hear about whether or not the Nibiruans have actual morphemes or if their writing is pictographic only."

"I've actually always wondered that! What do you think?"

Although she knows he's teasing her, Nyota warms to the topic, her tone of voice rising. " _I_ think they are showing definite signs of preliterate ideography, but the long-range scans aren't clear enough to tell for certain. If we could only go into closer orbit—"

"Tell Spock to move the ship for you."

Nyota's cheerful mood collapses at once. "I can't tell Spock much these days."

At once she's abashed at herself. It isn't like her to speak ill of Spock to anyone, much less to his cousin. Chris, too, seems taken aback. For a moment an awkward silence stretches between them and then they start to speak at the same time.

"So how's—"

"When are you—"

"Sorry. You first," Chris says gallantly. Nyota shifts her position on the side of the bed and considers how much to say. She could do the easy thing—make pleasant chit chat for a few minutes, asking Chris about his psychiatry practice, about his new girlfriend he mentions from time to time.

Or she could talk frankly to one of the only people she knows who understands Spock—who's known him longer than she has, who might offer some insight into what she can do about the growing impasse in their ability to communicate.

She says slowly, "You know that _things_ have been…difficult."

"I know," Chris says without missing a beat, and Nyota has a glimpse of what he must be like as a therapist—soothing, calm, focused.

"Did Spock tell you anything when you saw him last month? Anything about the nightmares? About us?"

Chris frowns slightly, as if casting about in his memory before answering. "Not in so many words. But I was alarmed that he came here alone—without you. Sarek thought that was odd, too."

"Sarek knew? That we spent our leave apart?"

"I told him," Chris says, his face coloring. "Should I have kept that a secret? He was leaving in a couple of days for New Vulcan and I thought he might be able to find a healer among the settlers."

Nyota frowns, a buzz of connections clicking into place. "Was Sarek traveling on a Starfleet ship? The _Antares_ , maybe?"

"Isn't that your dad's ship? That's the one. Sarek said he'd spoken to your dad. Small world, hey?"

Her face flushing, Nyota lifts her hand to her cheek. So Chris had said something to Sarek, and Sarek spoke to her father, and her father showed up at her apartment before heading out….

She isn't sure whether to be annoyed or grateful. How like her dad to meddle this way—dropping by with words of serious advice disguised as offhand comments. She's just glad her mother was kept out of the loop.

Her expression must signal her dismay because Chris says, "If I shouldn't have said anything, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to violate your privacy—"

"No, it's okay!" Nyota says quickly. "Really. It's fine. In fact, I'm glad you did. I'm glad you know."

To her dismay she feels her throat constrict and her eyes grow hot with unshed tears.

"I know that Spock is suffering, but he doesn't seem to realize that we're all grieving, too." Nyota hurries on, "I mean, I lost friends that day. Lots of them. And my roommate—"

She gives a little hiccup as she swallows back Gaila's name, and this time the tears do spill over her lashes and slide down her cheeks. Chris nods, his face stricken—and Nyota remembers introducing him to Gaila on the day of Spock's fraternization hearing, back when the worst thing she could imagine was that he would be drummed out of the Academy and lose his commission in Starfleet. Chris and Gaila had been there in the chamber, partly to support her and Spock but also as a visible protest of the whole proceeding. When Admiral Edmonson had finally dismissed Spock with little more than a proverbial slap on the wrist, Chris and Gaila had been visibly jubilant—and the last thing Nyota remembers as she and Spock took off in Chris' borrowed flitter was looking back and seeing them raising their hands in farewell and celebration.

"What I mean," Nyota says, snuffling into the back of her hand, "is that I know Spock blames himself for what happened to his mother—but he's not the only one who's having a hard time. It doesn't do any good to tell him that. He hardly listens to me anymore."

"I'm sure he does," Chris says. Nyota feels a flash of anger, but it swiftly cools into something closer to sorrow.

"No, I don't think so. I'm tired of trying to figure out what to say, what to do. I'm tired of being misunderstood, of being shut out. Right after he came back from that weekend with you, I thought we were going to turn a corner. But, no. We're like two people who don't really know what to say to each other anymore, and I'm tired of it."

"Compassion fatigue," Chris intones. Nyota looks up. "Compassion fatigue," Chris says again. "That's what you're feeling. Tired of having to be the understanding one, tired of having your own needs shoved in the background."

"I feel so selfish—"

"Don't! No relationship can survive if it's all one-sided."

Nyota gives an audible sigh. "I keep hoping that he'll talk to me about what he's feeling, but he's afraid to, I think. Like talking will uncork something that he isn't sure he can put back. Some evil genie in a bottle." She laughs ruefully at her own metaphor and sits back, tucking her legs under her.

"I won't lie," Chris says. "I've never seen him like this, and I don't know what will happen, but I'm glad you are with him. I'd hate it if he was going through…all this…without you."

Nyota gives a sad smile. "That's sort of what my dad told me the last time I saw him. Just be here. Be present. I'm trying, but it's not easy."

They fall again into an awkward silence that stretches out a few moments past comfortable.

"So how's—"

"If you come—"

Their words tangle simultaneously, making Nyota giggle. It's a relief, laughing in this small way, and she gives Chris an appreciative grin.

"You first," she says.

"I was just going to say that the next time you are Earthside, let me take you to dinner. For your birthday." He waits a beat, grins, and adds, "You can bring Spock if you want to."

"That could be months away!"

Chris' eyes crinkle. "My aunt Amanda always used to say that you get to celebrate your birthday until the last card arrives. Consider that invitation your last card. Or a rain check. In the meantime, enjoy your boring work in the Calliope Sector."

"Cassiopeaia," Nyota corrects him fondly. "You know, with all those quiet little planets like Celtar and Jeminid 2 and Nibiru. You haven't already forgotten your geophysical astronomy, have you?"

"I think I skipped class that day," Chris parries. "And you? What were you going to tell me?"

Nyota pauses and tries to collect her thoughts, uncertain what she wants to say after all.

"It's nothing," she says, stumbling over her words like someone still learning the language. "Except, thank you. For wishing me a happy birthday."

# # #

If the chief steward is startled to see Spock standing in the doorway of the galley, he doesn't let on. Some humans, Spock has decided, are naturally gifted with maintaining equanimity under most conditions. Someone responsible for feeding a crew of 400 would have to be such a person—stoic, unflappable, pragmatic—someone like the chief steward of the _Enterprise_.

"Commander?" the steward says. Spock advances into the galley and looks around. The crew, busy with the mid-shift meal, barely register his presence. One dark-haired woman steps around him carrying a large flat baking pan. A man holding a bag of some sort of grain follows in her wake.

Clearly Spock is in the way.

"I came to inquire about the possibility of making some Vulcan _plomeek_ soup," he says to the waiting steward. "For my personal consumption. I can provide a recipe—"

"That's not the problem," the steward says, his attention partly on a young crewman lifting a heavy pot from the stove. "I don't know where we'd find the ingredients. With our main suppliers gone—"

Stopping abruptly, the steward blinks, a concession to emotion. "I'm sorry, Commander. I didn't mean—"

"Understood," Spock says. Pivoting on his heel, he is out of the galley and halfway down the corridor towards his quarters before he allows the wave of grief to wash over him. Inconvenient, the way words can trigger such a response. Of course with Vulcan gone, the major Vulcan food producers are gone, too.

Illogical not to consider that before asking for _plomeek_ soup. Just as illogical to feel such a _need_ for a familiar comfort food. A human trait, a futile attempt to ease the strain of the current mission.

The _Enterprise_ is in high orbit above Nibiru, a planet about to destroy itself from seismic pressures—an underground magma rift so massive that the entire planet will soon explode into rubble. The resulting destruction will be as total as that of Vulcan itself….

By the time Spock reaches his door he has regained a measure of control—but as it always does, it tires him and leaves him temporarily short of breath.

As soon as he enters his quarters he sees the red flashing light of his subspace comm. A message from his father? Lately they've spoken at odd times—his father calling to update him on the municipal building projects in New Shi'Kahr, for instance, when Spock had not requested any such information, almost as if his father were looking for an excuse to speak to him.

Checking the message queue, Spock notes with surprise the ID of his cousin Chris. They haven't spoken since Spock spent his two-day leave in Seattle with him, a visit characterized by more silence than is normal from Chris. Spock hadn't minded. In fact, until their last night together the two cousins had hardly spoken more than a few words at a time, and those simple and straightforward. _Help yourself to some tea. If you need another blanket, look in the hall closet._

Spock had spent the time augmenting what he already knew about the Cassiopeaia System with some updated long-distance starship scans. Apparently none of the planets they were scheduled to survey had warp capability—or indeed, much technology at all. The first one, Nibiru, might even be pre-literate. So far none of the scans had picked up evidence suggesting a written or symbolic language. He tabbed several files to give to Nyota later.

He was stretched out on his bed reading a preliminary seismology report when Chris popped his head in the guest room and said, "Hey, since you're leaving in the morning, how 'bout we go out to get something to eat?"

Spock was poised to turn down his request—he wasn't particularly hungry, the weather outside was chilly and wet, the report he was reading was intriguing—but the look on Chris' face was set, and Spock realized that Chris' question had been perfunctory, the way humans often gave the illusion of choice when they had already decided the future. Not going out to dinner was not an option. Repressing a sigh, Spock sat up, grabbed his heavy _ruana_ , wrapped it around his shoulders, and followed Chris to the flitter.

"I know it's not Vulcan cuisine," Chris said as he navigated the short distance to a small restaurant near the waterfront, "but they specialize in all sorts of Asian vegetables. Some of them are even hot enough for your taste buds."

It was an old joke between them—though in reality, lately food had no pleasurable dimensions at all, no matter how well it was prepared. Food was sustenance, nothing more. Eating was a chore to be gotten through. He told Chris as much.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Chris said. "Sharing a meal can be very healing."

Spock gave Chris his most jaundiced look but Chris wasn't deterred.

"Remember that double birthday party we had? You were what, 10? 11? I seem to remember you enjoyed the ice cream that day."

Despite himself, Spock felt the side of his mouth quirk up.

"I did not _enjoy_ it," he corrected Chris. "I ate it to be polite, as my mother insisted."

"Oh, yeah, I could see that. You hated eating the whole thing, all the way to licking the bowl."

A lie, of course, told for Spock's amusement. He gifted Chris with a frown in return.

Chris adjusted the flitter's altitude and said, "You were never one for birthdays, though. Why is that?"

"Vulcans do not celebrate anniversaries of their birth. There is no logical reason to do so."

"They're fun! They're an excuse for a party!"

"As I said, no logical reason."

"They remind the people we love that we love them, that we are glad they are alive!"

At that Spock's expression had darkened as Chris parked the flitter next to the restaurant.

"Look," Chris said before Spock could open the flitter door, "I didn't mean to upset you—"

"I am not upset."

"Well, you're _something_."

"You are mistaken. I am fine."

Chris put out his hand and placed it on Spock's forearm. "I need to tell you something, and after that, I'll shut up about it. You _aren't_ fine. You _can't_ be fine. You might still be in shock—you might even convince yourself that you don't feel anything at all—but you aren't _fine_."

He paused and Spock could feel him looking at him intensely. "You are going to remind me that you are available should I need further conversation on this matter," Spock said dismissively. He reached his hand toward the door controls.

"I was going to remind you that sometimes, even for humans, actions can guide our emotions."

Spock lowered his hand from the door controls. "Explain."

"It's elementary psychology, really," Chris said. "Act as if you are happy, and you start to feel happy. Treat someone with kindness and you start to feel kindly toward them."

"Pretense," Spock said, and Chris laughed.

"Not exactly, though I can see why you'd think so. No, it's more like tricking your brain into a certain mood. We behave as we do because we feel a certain way, but the reverse is true, too. We can affect our emotions by what we do."

A counterintuitive construct—but Spock considered it carefully. Certainly his mother's conscious actions were later followed up with a change of emotion—an irritable moment shaken off with a forced smile and a vigorous walk in her garden, for instance.

Whether or not the same could be true for him—

"I'm not telling you to lie," Chris said, releasing the catch on the flitter doors, "but until you are ready to talk, you could at least act like you know that the people around you are suffering, too."

It was an odd comment—so much so that Spock has puzzled over it ever since. If he is reluctant to speak when his father calls, if he pulls an extra shift rather than spend an evening with Nyota, it is precisely because he knows they suffer. Rather than add to their pain, he stays away.

Flicking open the message queue, Spock tabs up Chris' recording.

_Sorry I missed you! But really, I was looking for Lieutenant Uhura. She didn't answer her comm so I thought she might be with you. Just wanted to wish her a happy birthday! Hope you both are doing well. Get in touch soon!_

The screen goes dark and Spock blinks for a moment, disoriented. At some level he's convinced that the short conversation has a subtext beyond the obvious—a call to action, perhaps, or a reminder of something outside his normal concern.

If the chief steward is surprised to see him twice in the same day, he doesn't show it. He does, however, react visibly when Spock asks about getting a bowl of ice cream.

"I'm sorry, Commander," he says, his expression betraying either confusion or something close to embarrassment, "but we only have chocolate. If you like, I can put in a requisition for another flavor the next time we are Spacedock—"

Of course the chief steward would be well acquainted with dietary restrictions for all of the crew. Hoping to put him at ease, Spock says swiftly, "It is not for my personal consumption. A bowl of chocolate is sufficient."

He turns to step out of the way of the bustling crew when the chief steward calls him back. "And Commander," he says, hesitation in his voice, "as for your earlier request—for the _plomeek_ soup? I've put out a call to some exotic growers. In the meantime, I want to experiment with some substitutions—apples and beets have some of the same flavor signatures. It might be possible to come up with an acceptable alternative."

To his surprise, Spock feels a flood of something close to gratitude for the steward's efforts. Before he can reply, the steward flags down a passing crew member.

"Get one unit of chocolate ice cream from the cooler," he says to the young woman wearing an apron. Turning to Spock, he says, "You want to take this with you, right?"

Spock nods in the affirmative and the steward barks out, "And get one of those stasis ice cubes. The smallest one we have."

The young woman hurries off. "That will keep it cold, sort of. _Ice cube_ is a misnomer, though. It doesn't keep things cold so much as it changes the molecular structure. Temporarily turns liquids to solids; makes it easier to ship them without spillage. When you're ready to consume it, you'll need to reset it to the original configuration or all you'll get is an inedible chocolate rock. Be right back."

He swivels around and starts after the retreating aproned woman.

_A chocolate rock._

_A stasis unit that turns liquids into solids._

On a larger scale, a cold fusion reactor could be reconfigured to solidify anything in its sphere of influence. _Like molten magma at the core of Nibiru—_

He'll need to run the numbers through the computer, of course, and set up a simulation in the engineering lab. Mr. Scott's shift ends in 34.5 minutes, but if heads to engineering now—

Exiting the galley he hears the chief steward calling behind him—"Commander?"—but he doesn't stop.

_The odds are low—incalculable without more data—that a reactor can be placed in the necessary juncture to stop the imminent destruction—_

_Already the ionic disruption from the dust cloud accumulating in the planet's atmosphere is interfering with the sensors—_

_Controlling the reactor from the ship could be problematic. A closer proximity might be the only way to guarantee detonation, but that would require the operator to enter the volcano at the heart of the magma rift—_

His thoughts whirling as he makes his way to the lift, Spock has the uneasy feeling that's he forgetting something crucial, that something important is sliding out of his view.

Later when he has time he will have to give this some consideration.

For now, though, he redoubles his focus on the task at hand, entering the lift daring to hope that there's a very real possibility he might be able to avert the looming destruction of a planet.

_This time._

This time he has more tools at hand, and more forewarning.

A chance for redemption at last—or if not that entirely, a worthy attempt.

**A/N: Thank you so much so staying with this story despite my going AWOL recently! Thanks, too, for all the encouraging reviews. You keep me going!**

**If you are interested in other parts of the Nibiru mission, "Deeper Into Darkness" is a "missing scenes" story that gives more context to the struggles between Spock and Uhura. It does** _**not** _ **, however, include ice cream! The reference to the fraternization hearing is from the last chapter of "People Will Say."**


	17. The Last Word

**Chapter 17: The Last Word**

**Disclaimer: Just playin'.**

"Dr. McCoy, you need to take a break."

Leonard McCoy looks away from the monitors over Jim Kirk's biobed long enough to shoot one of his trademark frowns at the presumptuous young medic standing behind him. The medic is a head taller than the doctor—a genderless Benarian with ruffled purple skin and a fringe of colorless fur bracketing a lipless mouth- -but it quails visibly, tucking in its long arms and ducking backwards towards the glass door.

"When I want your advice, I'll ask for it," McCoy says. "Go bother someone else."

The Benarian disappears into the hall and McCoy lets his shoulders sag. He _is_ tired. It's been fifteen hours since they'd gotten Jim out of the cryotube and started an infusion with Khan's blood. So far he's relatively stable—though he's running a fever and his blood pressure has been rocketing all over the place. The induced coma damps down some of the inevitable metabolic stresses, but at least once an hour the monitors sound when something else goes wrong—high glucose levels, falling amounts of dopamine, fluctuations in total blood volume. When Jim does wake up, McCoy has a list of grievances ready to lob at him.

A slight noise at the door—that pesky medic again. McCoy whirls around to tell him to go away but is startled by the sight of Spock standing there instead. Still wearing his torn uniform—a gash across his nose and brow untreated—Spock looks as tired as McCoy feels. Dark circles are under his eyes. When he steps forward into the room, he favors his left leg with an almost imperceptible limp. He ought to be in a hospital room of his own.

"What are you doing here?"

Ignoring McCoy, Spock crosses the distance to the bed. His eyes dart over Jim quickly and then settle on the beeping monitor.

"The Captain?"

"Hell if I know," McCoy says. "I think he's going to be okay—eventually. But that's a guess, and I know how you feel about mere guesses."

Spock blinks and turns his gaze on the doctor. "Your guesses are never _mere_."

"Well," McCoy says, coughing to cover his surprise, "thanks." He waits a beat and says, "You didn't answer my question. Why are you here? You need to get that looked at," he says, pointing to the dried blood on Spock's head.

"I have not had time. Until a few minutes ago, I was being debriefed by Starfleet. Admiral Keen is initiating an inquest into Admiral Marcus' involvement with Section 31."

McCoy feels his own blood pressure rising. "Cloak and daggers! Is that what we are now, a spy organization? That's not what I signed on for."

From the corner of his eye McCoy sees Spock wobble—a tiny motion that gives away his exhaustion.

"Sit down," McCoy says as gruffly as he can, "before you fall down and I have you hauled to the emergency room." Spock opens his mouth—undoubtedly to protest—and McCoy crosses his arms and glares. "No arguments. There's a friendly medic out in the hall just itching to be helpful, and if you don't sit down immediately—"

"Your point," Spock says, easing himself into the only chair in the room, "is well taken."

"Shut up," McCoy says, pulling out his mediscanner and waving it over Spock. Just as he thought—contusions, cracked ribs, a hairline fracture in his tibia, lacerations on his face and hands. Anyone else would have been doubled over in pain. Or flat on his back unconscious. McCoy clucks loudly.

"You should have seen someone hours ago," he says, adjusting the scanner and waving it over Spock's shoulder. "Torn rotator cuff. That's gonna need some repairs. I'm admitting you—"

"I appreciate your concern," Spock says, struggling to sit upright, "but I am due back at Headquarters at 0700."

"Aren't you listening to me? I just told you that your injuries require medical attention now."

Spock doesn't wince—not exactly—but the expression on his face gives away some internal calculus. "Doctor, there are many people requiring more urgent care. The civilian casualties alone—"

"Are tremendous. I know that. The emergency rooms are swamped. The needs of the many. I get it. But that doesn't change things with you. Whatever Headquarters wants from you can wait, and besides, I thought you said you were debriefed already."

"About Admiral Marcus. There's the other more pressing matter to discuss."

He cuts his eyes at Jim and McCoy sighs. No use to pretend he doesn't understand. Using Khan's blood has opened the proverbial Pandora's box.

Not that it could be helped, of course. Jim was dead—would _still_ be dead—if Khan's blood didn't have recuperative and regenerative properties. Properties that made the Augments such a threat hundreds of years ago. Which make them a threat now if they are ever revived—

McCoy feels Spock looking at him.

"As soon as the captain is stable," Spock says, "I expect the Admiralty will want to talk to you."

"Let 'em," McCoy says. His bravado sounds false, even to himself. "I'm ready."

The monitor beeps and McCoy heads to the side of the biobed. "Fever spike," he says. A nurse, alerted by the monitor, bustles inside, ready to assist. McCoy waves her away.

"I got this," he says, picking up a hypospray from the counter. He hesitates a moment—50cc or double that?—and decides on the lower dose. He can always increase it later if Jim doesn't respond.

_A constant of the universe—how much easier it is to add than subtract. A dose of medicine; salt in the soup; a spouse._

McCoy rubs his hand through his hair and shakes his head. These are the kind of crazy thoughts he gets when he's punchy for sleep. Perhaps that Benarian was right—

Placing the empty hypospray on the counter, he glances over at Spock. He's still in the chair, his eyes at half-mast. When he sees McCoy looking him over, he starts to rise.

"Wait just a minute," McCoy says, picking up another hypospray. "Here's something for pain."

"I do not require anything," Spock says with some asperity.

"I'm a doctor, dammit," McCoy says, "not a mind-reader, but I can see that you're hurting."

"I am in control of my pain, Doctor," Spock says, his hands gripping the side of the chair. "As I indicated earlier, I have another meeting at Headquarters. Any pain medication will dull my faculties."

Taking a deep sigh, McCoy says, "At least let me get you started on an antibiotic. That's a nasty cut on your face. And you need a stitch or two."

"Doctor, I—"

"Look, Spock, I can pull rank and keep you here in the hospital so you can get the treatment you need, or you can cooperate and I'll let you be on your way shortly. Your choice."

Something inside Spock seems to collapse—some resolve or force of will buckling and giving way. He makes an audible sigh.

McCoy picks up a hypo and holds it up to the light, adjusting the dosage. "If it makes you feel any better," he says, motioning toward the biobed where Jim lies still and pale, "I'm going to be here…for the duration. I'll let you know if anything changes, but you aren't going to do anyone any favors if you collapse. You aren't indestructible, you know. People count on you, it's true, but they care about you, too. Don't forget that."

Spock cuts his eyes at McCoy, the hint of a frown on his face. "You are not the first person to remind me of that today. I have not forgotten."

"Uh huh," McCoy says, pressing the hyprospray under the side of Spock's jaw. "Lieutenant Uhura came by earlier looking for you. Seems you weren't answering your comm. She hadn't heard a word from you since…this."

He motions toward Jim.

_Jim. The dead tribble. The Enterprise falling from the sky. The frantic pursuit for some of Khan's miracle blood—_

"I was in the debriefing," Spock says, his voice becoming softly slurred. "I knew she would understand my silence—"

Like a light going out, Spock closes his eyes and his head bobs forward. _Finally._ McCoy pats his trusty hypo. Stepping to the doorway, he calls out to the startled Benarian medic walking by, "Be helpful for a change and bring a gurney. And an electrostimulator. And a portable biomonitor. We have an extra guest at this party."

XXX

When she wakes up, Nyota doesn't know where she is. She doesn't panic—her Starfleet training is too thorough for that—but her heart rate is elevated and her senses hyperaware until she remembers bunking here in an empty dorm room at the Academy.

A quick glance at her comm gives her the time—0532—the sun just coming up. She's surprised that she's slept so long, if not particularly well. Her eyes feel crusty and the stitches on her forehead throb. With the flick of her thumb, she checks her message queue for some word from Spock. Nothing.

Last night she'd spoken to his father in the hospital, Sarek offering his apartment as a place to stay while he headed to Paris to Federation meetings. She'd waited outside the captain's room until it was clear that no one was going to tell her anything definitive—if anything definitive could be told—and she left when she realized she was in the way more than anything else.

Spock was nowhere. Or at least he wasn't telling her where he was, and she had been too tired to spend much energy tracking him down.

But she should have heard from him by now.

It's true that they've been going through a rough patch lately, false starts and stops as they lurch their way past the initial shock of the Vulcan genocide, the death of Spock's mother, the general chaos of Starfleet field promotions and funerals and hasty reassignments…her head hurts thinking about it all.

Still, on the bridge when Spock had turned to her, a plea in his expression, she'd known without a doubt that she held the future in her hands, that Spock would do whatever she said—and she'd said, "Go get him," certain that no one but Spock could go after Khan. No one. And she knew in that same moment what Spock had known earlier in the volcano, that putting his life in jeopardy wasn't a dismissal of what he felt about her, about _them_ , but a necessity of the moment.

A quick shower and a detour to the campus cafeteria for a cup of coffee and she's on her way back to the hospital, her comm in her hand as she walks across the neatly mowed commons, a weird contrast to the still-smoldering ruins near the Presidio plowed into rumble by Khan's ship. Or Marcus's ship. Another loss of words—knowing what to call it.

She flicks her thumb to refresh her message on her comm. _Where are you? Are you okay?_

To her surprise no one stops her in the hospital as she makes her way up the lift to the floor where she assumes the Captain is still being monitored. As she heads down the hall she can see Leonard McCoy standing in a doorway, his blue scrubs rumpled, his gaze directed inside the room where she hears faint beeps.

Right before she reaches the room McCoy turns and sees her.

"Shh!" he says, putting his fingers to his lips. Nyota looks inside and sees Spock sleeping on a gurney near the door.

"What's going on?"

McCoy gives a self-satisfied smirk. "Sometimes I surprise myself," he says. "He'll be ready to go home soon. Not ideal—I'd rather keep him under observation—but at least he's had a few hours hooked up to the electrostimulator. Took care of a few tears and breaks, anyway."

To her surprise, Nyota feels her eyes water. She's so relieved to know that Spock has been here for hours, unable instead of unwilling to respond to her. Stepping closer to the gurney, she examines his face, his lashes dark against the pallor of his cheeks, his hair ruffled in a way that would embarrass him if he know he was on public view.

As if sensing her presence, Spock suddenly opens his eyes.

"Well, hello Sleeping Beauty," McCoy says. Spock pointedly ignores the doctor and looks at Nyota.

"I was in meetings at Headquarters."

Nyota bites back her automatic reply— _how hard would it have been to let me know where you were? You couldn't send me a single word?_

"I know," she says instead. "It's okay."

It's not really okay, but it is, too. Or it will be, after she gets over some of the shock of what's happened.

Not just what's happened to the ship and the Captain and her crewmates, but to this relationship—the past few months stumbling their way forward to an uncertain destination.

Spock rocks forward slightly and Nyota slips her hand behind his back to help him sit up. As always, he's warm to her touch, even in the cold hospital room.

"Easy there," McCoy says as Spock sways slightly. "He's still a little loopy," the doctor says to Nyota, "though if you go slow, you can take him off my hands. I have far more serious matters to take care of."

He darts a glance in Kirk's direction and Nyota says, "How's the Captain doing?"

"Better this morning, though he's not out of the woods. We should know more after we do another liver scan this afternoon." Turning to Spock, he says, "If you promise not to cause any trouble, I'll let you leave. Nope—don't argue with me, not if you want to get out of here today. Silence is golden, Spock. Let me have the last word and you can be on your way."

Nyota sees Spock open his mouth—and then close it. Bracing himself on the edge of the gurney, he pushes himself upright, pressing his side against hers. Hooking her arm through his elbow, she steers him through the door and down the hall to the lift.

Only when the doors shut and the lift begins to move does Spock ask where they are going.

"Didn't you hear what Dr. McCoy said? Silence is golden. You'll know soon enough."

The hoverbus is already in sight when they exit the front of the hospital. Staying close to Spock's side to keep him steady, Nyota manages him on the bus and then off again a few minutes later when they pull up to the stop closest to the Vulcan Embassy.

"You are taking me to my father?"

"He's in Paris for as long as the Federation is in meetings," Nyota says. "He knew you'd need a place to stay."

Spock nods once, a surprising capitulation. "And you?"

His question catches her off guard. Of course she is planning to stay here with him. Perhaps he doesn't want her to? Her heart hammers in her chest so hard that her face flushes. Is he saying that it is time to part, that the crack between them has widened into a larger chasm?

He might need some time alone—or worse, just time without her. What she thought she had sensed on the bridge—his seeking her approval, her granting it—might have been in her imagination only.

Instead of answering, she motions to the security panel and Spock puts out one hand to steady himself while he taps in the entry code. In a few more steps they are inside, Spock leading the way down a narrow hallway and almost collapsing on the bed. For a moment she stands there, swaying slightly, watching as he winces visibly and settles, his eyes pinched shut.

"You need to rest," she says, leaning forward. "I'll—I'll be going then."

Spock's eyes flick open, his brow furrowed.

"No," he says, his voice raspy. He pats the bed beside him, a gesture so unlike him that Nyota breaks into a reluctant grin. Tentatively she perches on the side of the bed, as upright and unmovable as a tree—or so she thinks. Before she can stop him, Spock snakes out one arm and circles her waist, pulling her down onto the bed next to him.

"No," he says simply, his grip tightening, his eyes closing. She listens as his ragged breathing slows and softens, certain that he is asleep. But the moment she starts to pull away, Spock's eyes open and he says, again, "No." Clearly she isn't going anywhere. That single syllable anchors her in a way no other word could at that moment—more than any demonstrative declaration of love or intention. With a sigh—not of dismay but of satisfaction—she closes her eyes and lets herself drift into a dreamless slumber.

XXX

Even when Spock is asleep, he isn't. Not fully, not the way his mother was truly unaware of her surroundings when she curled up in bed, eyes shut, her mind like a traveler leaving her body behind. Noises, smells, motions—at some level they are part of the landscape of his sleeping life. An interference of sorts. An insistence that he attend to things outside himself.

As soon as McCoy slaps the hypo on his neck, Spock knows he has been—as the good doctor would say— _slipped a mickey._ His eyes slide shut but he listens idly as a medic bustles about, hooking him up to a stimulator. The tibia break, the torn rotator cuff—as soon as the machine begins to hum, Spock feels his body respond with warmth and tingling, indicating an increase in blood flow.

He tries to lift his hand but can't. A wave of indifference washes over him—an effect of the drug, no doubt.

The meeting at Headquarters at 0700. Undoubtedly, he will miss it. He resigns himself to doing nothing more than healing until Dr. McCoy's medications wear off.

Not nothing—he can still hear and sense the movement of the doctor and the medics in the room. At first they are close, adjusting the monitor near his head, attaching a lead to his chest, pulling a blanket over his legs.

Then their footsteps retreat across the room where Spock knows the Captain lies in an induced coma, a thready beep signaling his heart rate, a lower hum and occasional click or hiss as IVs and electrodes measure his progress or lack of it.

Although Spock has often heard humans describe the passage of time in relative terms, he's never quite understood the perception until now, and now the evening passes slowly. Being unable to move is not worrying until he hears Dr. McCoy manipulating some piece of rolling machinery near the Captain's bed, hears the doctor mutter a string of expletives. A clatter and a rush—and then Dr. McCoy takes a deep breath and says, "Okay, that's better. Give him another 12 units every half hour until his oxygen saturation level starts to rise."

"He's stable now, Doctor," an unfamiliar voice says. "You can get some rest in the break room. I can stay here and watch."

"I'm not moving," McCoy says. "Push one of the recliners in here, and then go find someone else to bother."

The realization that McCoy obviously intends to stay at Jim's bedside is surprisingly reassuring. Spock feels something inside him relax—and the next thing he knows, he is looking up at Nyota's face.

The trip from the hospital to his father's apartment near the embassy is a blur—a disturbing kaleidoscope of unfocused colors and shapes. The only constant is Nyota's cool touch, her hand under his elbow keeping him steady.

His father's bed rises up and his cheek presses against the chilly fabric of the pillow. A stirring of the air around him, the burr of something said, and he knows that Nyota is preparing to leave. The idea of her absence makes him physically shiver and he musters the energy to reach out to stop her.

No, he hears himself say. _No to being afraid to feel, no to living without the consolation of shared joy and pain, no to facing the future alone. I have so much I want to say—_

When his head clears—when whatever this is the doctor has given him leaves and he has enough wit to speak intelligently—he will tell her how much he needs her, more now than ever.

When his mind is no longer fuzzy and foggy he will muster up the sorts of metaphors he knows she finds meaningful, fanciful language that often feels forced and unnatural but which he employs because it brings her joy—and tell her that she is his guiding star. Half of his heart. As necessary as his next breath.

When he can think again, and talk again, he has a great deal he wants to tell her—explanations for his silence, apologies for his distance.

And he wants to hear what she may want to say in return.

But for now he needs to close his eyes and keep her close. She cannot leave—for if she does, he will fly apart. He will cease to exist. He will disappear into nothingness.

No, he says, willing her to stay, himself to live. No.

**A/N: The end at last! Thank you to everyone who stayed along for what became a protracted ride with a fickle Muse. Finding a way to tell this story without retelling "Deeper Into Darkness" proved to be quite a challenge, so thank you for jumping with me over portions of the story already told elsewhere! It's always such a pleasure to write for you—and your kind notes and encouragement mean more than you can know.**

**Sadly today we got word of Leonard Nimoy's death. Of all the characters I routinely inhabit on these pages, Spock is the one for whom I feel the most affinity. I think most of us who love Spock love him because he _is_ us—the nerdy outsider, earnest and often clueless. For bringing to life such a memorable character, Leonard Nimoy enriched us all. He will be greatly missed.**


End file.
